Alliance
by sirscreen
Summary: It all began with a kidnapping...
1. Cortez

**Okay, so this is the beginning of my new story, **_**Alliance. **_**For those of you who haven't read the prequels **_**Recovery, KT, **_**or **_**Favor, **_**I am going to make this as stand-alone as possible. Just ask questions if you get confused. **

_Dial Tone._

_ "Yes?"_

_ "I made it to the hotel."_

_ "Easy part."_

_ "What about you?"_

_ "I talked to one of my contacts. We got a lead."_

_ "I meant your sleeping arrangements."_

_ "I' got a safe house in the city."_

_ "This'll get dangerous."_

_ "We knew that before we started."_

_ "Then we had the element of surprise."_

_ "We still do. They don't know that we know."_

_ "They know we got Claypool."_

_ "They know that _I _got Claypool. They think you are dead."_

_ "You have an escape route?"_

_ "House-boat in the Keyes. Enough food and water to get us to Mexico." _

_ "That looks tempting."_

_ "We run now we'll always be running."_

_ "If I choose to run?"_

_ "I'm tired of playing lone wolf. You have more at stake than I do. You run, I run with you."_

_ "And bitch every step of the way."_

_ "He he. Of course. Would you expect anything less of me?"_

_ "No."_

_ "Are you in, or should I ready the boat?"_

_ "Where's the rendezvous?"_

* * *

**Two days later...**

A beautiful day in Miami. The sun was shining, a slight breeze blew away the oppressive humidity. A day spent surfing, a night spent clubbing.

A perfect day for a murder.

"Victim's name is Salazar Ramón," Detective Sergeant Frank Tripp said, "Has a record. Busted twice for illegal possession of dope. Served five years in New Mexico, moved here recently."

"And now he's dead," Horatio Caine observed, leaning over the body, "Any ideas, Doctor?"

"I'm going out on a limb here and saying subdural hematoma," the ME replied, "Looks like his head was bashed into the wall over there. There's also peri-mortem bruising at the throat, so it looks like he was hit there as well. I'll know more when he's back at the lab. "

"Wall belongs to Santiago Córtez," Tripp informed them, "It's why we're here in the first place. Mrs Córtez called in a kidnapping of her husband. Mr Ramón here worked as private security for Córtez."

"Córtez," Caine whispered, "That sounds familiar."

"It should," Tripp answered, "He's big on the smuggling scene. We've been trying to nab him since '99, but we haven't had any luck. Half the ICE agents in Miami are on a task force trying to nail the sumbitch."

"So, in the kidnapping attempt, Ramón was killed," Caine confirmed,"But why here?"

"Well, maybe our guy tried to scale the wall here," Tripp said, "Or he could have used it as an escape route."

"Only one way to find out," Caine replied.

* * *

Eric Delko looked down at the top of the wall, "That's new."

Glued to the top of the plaster covered brick wall was broken glass, sharp edges to the sky. A common third-world anti-burglary system, it was out of place, and highly illegal, in Miami. On this, however, a pair of hands had crushed the glass into two distinct handprints, fingers pointing away from the yard.

"Yeah, someone definitely tried to get out of here this way."

* * *

Natalia Boa Vista examined the alarm sirens in the yard. Spray on insulation had been applied to their inside to dampen the alarm. In addition, the floodlights were shot out with a small caliber weapon.

"We're dealing with pros."

* * *

"So, smuggling business pays well, I see," Ryan Wolfe observed, "I mean look at this place: hip, modern, what in the world is that?"

"Modern Art piece," Calleigh Dusquesne observed, tilting her head to the right to get a new perspective, "It looks like a seal kissing an elephant."

Wolfe tilted his head the opposite direction, "From this angle it looks like Abe Lincoln."

She tilted her head the same way, "I see George Washington. Tilt your head the other way."

He did so, "Yep, seal kissing an elephant."

They continued down the hallway, flashing their UV lights up and down the walls. Calleigh's sharp eye caught a minor spark along the wall.

Carefully pulling it out of the wall, she shined a light on it, "I found some sort of glass embedded into the wall."

Ryan, however was looking at the other one, "I found footprints... _on_ the wall."

Whirling around, Calleigh confirmed that, yes, there was indeed footprints, toes pointed to the floor, on the adjacent wall.

"I'd say, size 13?" Calleigh guessed.

"It looks like someone walked _down_ the wall," Ryan said, "Wait, wasn't there glass glued to the top of the wall outside?"

"Yes," Calleigh agreed, "So maybe it was transferred?"

"Which would mean that our guy must have scaled both walls," Ryan twisted his head between the two, noting that they were at least four feet apart, "Are we dealing with Spider-Man?"

* * *

**Trev**

I think I saw this in a Spider-Man comic. Only, it was less cruel.

You know, there is some sort art in a slightly potbellied, demonicaly hairy, almost naked Cuban hanging from feet in a hot, dark Connex, illuminated by floodlight. Man, I need to stop reading about impressionist art.

"Oh, Mr Cortez," I sighed, picking my fingernails with a K-Bar for effect, "What a tangled web you woved..."

**PLEASE REVEIW**


	2. Cuban Music

The Brunette watched from a discreet distance as they loaded the body into the M.E.'s truck. The police frantically were going in and out of the house, with a section taped off where the guard had died. She was skillfully taking pictures of the officers, uniformed and not, with a HD digital camera.

She cursed once more. This would not make their work any easier.

* * *

**Miami Crime Lab**

Natalia carefully pulled out the bullet fragment out of the floodlight. The bullet looked in good shape, but she would leave that for Calleigh to determine. She carefully set it on the table in a specimen jar, labeling it neat handwriting.

Turning to the sirens, she carefully cut out a piece. She again placed it into a specimen jar.

"Hey," she looked up to see Ryan standing in the doorway, "I analyzed the footprints left on the wall, came up with a generic hiking boot."

He handed her a picture of a plain looking canvass boot, "There are probably hundreds of these in Miami."

"But the interesting part is that I found a foreign element in with the dirt. Now, most of the dirt came from the garden outside the house. I found traces of iron-oxide mixed with foreign dirt."

"Well, I am just getting started analyzing this stuff," she gestured toward the flood-lights and sirens, "It doesn't help that Walter is in Sacramento for a week at a conference, so no one is here to help me."

"Have you heard anything about the kidnappers contacting the wife with demands?" Ryan asked.

"I was about to ask you the same question."

"Huh," Ryan scratched his chin, "Hay, umm, there's a nice Cuban band playing at the Goldflower tonight."

"Cuban band?" she scoffed, "You hate Cuban music."

"I do-" he was effectively silenced by her patient stare, "Okay, but these guys aren't half bad. Really."

* * *

**Trev**

These guys are _horrible_. Tune your damn guitar, buddy! Jesus, I haven't played in, what, ten _years_ and I can still do a chord better than you!

I grumbled and sipped my Coors. The dance floor was alive with half-drunk college students in skimpy clothes and tourists in Hawaiian shirts swaying madly to the lively music.

"_Chto my zdesʹ delaem?__"_ I asked in Russian.

_"Razvedka" _my companion replied. _Reconnaissance._

_"Eto yedinstvennaya prichina?" _Is that the only reason?

_"Nyet"_ she swished her gin and tonic, _"mne skuchno" I'm bored._

I switched to French, _"__Qui sommes-nous observer?__" who are we observing?_

She smiled and tilted her head to a couple on the dance floor. Easy to spot. The guy was trying to unwind and dance, but seemed to be failing miserably. The chick, oddly familiar, seemed to be enjoying herself by helping the poor shlub relax. My companion said, "_Trabajan para el laboratorio de criminalística."_

Made sense. The guy had "lab geek" written all over him. He'd be one of the shmuks I'd beat up in high school.

She grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.

"Hell no."

Just once, I'd like to win an argument.

* * *

To say that Natalia was having fun was an understatement. Ryan trying to relax when clearly the music to him sounded like medieval torture devices in the hands of tune death babies was just so damn funny. After about thirty minutes of easy, repetitive dances she finally had to sit down and order herself a drink to keep from laughing to hard.

"You are... _so _stiff," she chortled.

"I am not," Ryan defended, "You're just too loose."

_"Sacrilege,_" Ryan turned around to see man, medium height, brown hair and green eyes, still slightly perspiring from the dance floor nursing a cold, "That be sacrilege, friend."

Ryan chuckled, "What's sacrilege?"

"Tellin' a beautiful woman she's too loose, friend!" the man had a Southern accent, a bit more south than Calleigh, "She mi' wise up and break the hearts of a lot poor fellas!"

"And who might you be?" Natalia asked.

"Trevor Johnson," he shook their hands, "Friends call me Trev."

"I'm Ryan, this is Natalia," Ryan introduced.

"Nice to meet you," she held out her hand.

"Charmed," he smiled and did the dip-the-head-raise-the-hand-but-don't-kiss-it thing unique to the South, "I'd love to stay and chat, but ma' girl's gonna get perty un-glad-like if I don't get her a drink anytime soon."

He grabbed a gin and tonic and left to the dance floor, adding, "And I lahk my girl all glad-like and such."

Natalia and Ryan forgot him within minutes.

* * *

"What was that about?"

"Maintaining our cover."

"You made contact."

"Most people don't remember half the people they meet at bars."

"These people are trained to notice things."

"They didn't."

"How do you know?"

"They're off the clock. They're drinking. They are mentally relaxing until they have to show up for work tomorrow morning. When you deal with death all day, a time to relax isn't wasted."

"You seem confidant."

"I _am_ conf- now you're just showing off."

"I took dance lessons in high school."

"I played football. The closest thing I have to coordination like that was speed camp in the summer."

"Come on, I'll lead."

"Which is what I'm afraid of."

**PLEASE REVEIW**


	3. Port of Miami

**I'm a sad camper. Only one person reviewed. :(**

** CSI Crime Lab**

"Start it," Delko said as Ryan entered the building.

Calleigh obediently pressed _start_ on the stopwatch, asking, "Remember, if it over five minutes, they did not sleep together."

"They slept together," Delko assured, not worried about the twenty bucks he would lose if they didn't.

Because they did. They had to.

4:39... 4:40...

"Tick-tock, tick-tock," Calleigh mocked, enjoying Delko's growing anxiety.

"Keep talking," Delko gritted his teeth. _Come on, Natalia..._

4:55...4:56...4:57..._4:58...4:59..._

"Damn," Delko sighed and grudgingly handing over a twenty to a smug Calleigh.

Natalia walked in a minute and a half later.

* * *

"Mr, Wolfe, you said you found something?" Horatio said.

"Yeah, the rust I found came from common sheet metal," Ryan explained, "It's very common. Used in everything from storage to garage doors. But, I analyzed the way rust was formed. It could have only come from low concentration salt water. I analyzed the Oceanic Service's reports on water salinity in the Miami area, and the only place with that particular concentration of salt water is a ten square mile area south-west of Biscayne National Park"

"Good work, Mr Wolfe," Horatio said, walking away, cell phone already out to call in reinforcements.

* * *

The reason for the low salinity in the water of the area was that it was were the fresh(if incredibly muddy) water of the Florida swamps met ocean water. At high tide, it was as salty as the ocean. At low, if you drained the mud out and boiled all the little microbes, the water could be drunk. In between, though, it maintained a moderate salinity.

There was also nothing but a Connex in the entire area. So the search went by fast.

Mr Córtez was left hanging upside down, IV drip attached to his arm. Being naked except for his underwear did not make the scene any more normal.

* * *

"Not good."

"What do we do now, Trev?"

"Ever see the movIe _Heartbreak Ridge_?"

"Oh God, please don't do a Clint Eastwood impression."

_"Improvise, Adapt, Overcome."_

"Oh God..."

"We still do what were going to do. We just do it sooner."

"Without any prior planning?"

"Yep."

"Not escape prepared?"

"Yeah."

"No backup plan?"

"None what-so-ever."

"What are we waiting for?"

"I was about to ask you the same question."

**Port of Miami**

**Trev**

The Ergonomic Grenade Laughing Module(EGLM) is a 40mm grenade launcher designed for the Mk-16 or Mk-17, commonly known as the Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle(SCAR). It boasts many advantages over the older M203, including a double action trigger and swing out chamber.

I had a both lying around.

I examined down my target area. Mr Córtez was a paranoid man. Not only had he posted guards in the highly guarded Port of Miami (the biggest bullshit south of DC) he had his boys armed with highly illegal automatic weapons, and they were ghetto kids. The mean kind. And they're cheap and reproduce like rabbits.

All the more targets for me.

I loaded a high explosive round into the launcher and let it fly.

The grenade exploded about twenty feet from one of the idiots, sending him and a nearby buddy flying. I jacked another at them, having the same effect.

The beauty of a grenade launcher is that it can be used as a mortar, which are a bitch to spot and shoot at for the most experienced combat soldier. These guys probably couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, let alone a single grenadier who they couldn't find.

I lowered my Mk-17 and aimed at one brave/ incredibly stupid soul and squeezed the trigger. The rubber round was blunt as hell and hurt like it too. He'd live, just not very happily for the next few days.

The 7.62mm rubber knocked him on his ass. He rolled over and staggard to his feet. Another idiot didn't get the message and started firing wildly. He got a round to the solar plexus for his trouble. The rest got the message and amscrayed.

"Go," I said into my mike.

I watched as she raced from her hidden position and to the Connex and used bolt cutters to break the lock and disappeared inside.

I cursed when I heard police sirens, "Our rouse has been discovered. Get out now."

_"I'm not done yet."_

"Lyn-"

_"I'll be fine. _You_ get out!"_

If Lyn got caught, she was facing life imprisonment.

If I got caught, I had maybe forty-eight hours until I was assassinated by my former employers.

"Rendezvous, back at the hotel," I instructed, cursing myself for what I was about to do.

_"Wilco. See you there." _I hope so.

* * *

When Cótez said that whoever had kidnapped him were planning a raid in the Port of Miami, Horatio had immediately called in SWAT and more reinforcements for help. If the Port was raided, not only would the media spin it to make the police look bad, but it could embolden terrorists.

Which kinda left his head when someone shot out his engine block.

Horatio ducked out of his vehicle as automatic fire peppered his Hummer. The squad cars and SWAT van behind his vehicle ground to a halt. The rearmost vehicle tried to backup, but it met a similar fate as Horatio's.

Horatio lifted his head to try and get a bead on the shooter. He got a silhouette before he ducked a bullet whizzed past his head. Whoever it was was being judicious in their firing. Single shots, usually a single second interval between them.

The police officers weren't so careful. They found his silhouette and fired everything they had at him. Horatio came out of cover and fired twice, seeing it duck out of view. The police, especially SWAT with their fully automatic weapons, continued a steady stream of fire.

"Hold your fire!" Horatio shouted, "HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

Reluctantly, and slowly, the police stopped firing.

There was no return fire.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. Jesus

** WHY DOES NO ONE REVIEW MY STORIES? AM I REALLLY THAT BAD?**

_"The Port of Miami today was host to a shootout between police and what is expected to be a lone gunman. The gunman appeared to be firing an assault weapon. No police have been hurt-"_

_ "The gunman has been spotted on a security feed in the west side of the Port. As you can see, the footage is grainy, and although repeated attempts to enhance the image has been attempted, no positive-"_

_ "A, what some would call, _terrorist_ attack on the Port of Miami has occurred today. Miami-Dade Police were attacked, numbers still unknown. The attackers were armed with fully automatic weapons. Police so far have declined to comment."_

The woman again changed the channel. Every news organization in Florida, and a few nation wide ones, too, were running this story. She seethed inside, the anger building with every sound bite.

She spun around and knocked Trev in the head, with an audible _whack_, with the remote she held.

"Ow!" he cried, rubbing where the remote had hit, "Jesus, Lyn. Is this what I get for saving you from the coppers?"

"Don't call me Lyn," she seethed, "What the hell was that about?"

"No way you would have gotten out with the way they were going," Trev defended, "This way, you cover remains intact."

"You could have been killed!" she argued fiercely, "Or worse, _captured!"_

To any one but them it would seem like they had there priorities mixed up.

But at least when the police kill you, you go out with a fight. If the police caught Trev, he would be a sitting duck.

"But I wasn't," he defended, "I saw that shit was going to hit the fan. So I improvised so you wouldn't get hit by turd."

"Why thank you very much," somehow, Trev did not think she was very thankful, "Now, promise me you won't do any thing stupid-slash-suicidal till we have these bastards."

"I promise," Trev deadpanned, "What'd ya get?"

"Pictures," she gestured at a laptop on the bar, "Some of it has some scientific-medical stuff on it. I was hoping you could translate. And I found that," she pointed at a shiny metal briefcase, "Haven't got it open yet. What are you doing?"

Trev popped his head out from under the bar, saying "This isn't a mini-bar. This is bigger than your average bar! An Irishman would think this too much booze!"

"It's a luxury villa in a five star hotel," she said exasperatedly, "You get your money's worth."

"You mean _you _get _my_ money's worth," Trev said.

"Speaking of which, how do you pay for this?"

"I stole some money from al-Queda," he said off-handedly, and then looked at the photos on the screen, "Let's see... Testosterone cypionate, that's an anabolic steroid, popular in Europe, Isoflurine, that's medical grade anesthesia, Antenex, it's Diazepam sold in Australia, that's an antibiotic, antiviral, medical grade cocaine, this is all stuff you find in hospitals."

"What about this?" she held up a small bottle.

"_Thaat..._ Oh Jesus," Trev said.

* * *

"Hey, Calleigh," Natalia called, rolling from under Horatio's Hummer, "What's this?"

She held up what looked like a metal dart, about a half inch in diameter with fins about an inch long.

"Looks like a fletché," Calleigh said, "But it's a pretty big one. Most aren't even half this size."

"Aren't fletchés used in anti-personnel tank rounds?" Natalia asked.

"That depends on the round," Calleigh said, "The Germans like to use ball bearings in their anti-personnel rounds. They bounce."

"Teutonic thoroughness sure is something, huh?" Natalia said dryly.

"Otherwise a Mercedes wouldn't be such a nice car," Calleigh returned with a smile, and it suddenly dropped, "Wait a minute," she hurried over to a table ten feet away. It was cluttered with various items in evidence bags. She picked one up, removing the item. It looked like half a dumbell, cut down the middle, about two inches long with an almost inch radius. At the center was a half circle. The fletché fit the half circle perfectly.

"It's a sabot round," Calleigh said, "The fletché is wrapped around a plastic 'shoe'" she held up the item, "and when falls off when it exists the barrel. It allows a smaller projectile to be used in a much bigger gun."

"Sabot round? Like in Transformers?"

"No such thing as a 40mm Sabot round"it had ruined the movie for her "This is custom made. Very crudely done too. I'll run it through the system, see if anything pops up."

"I'll finish processing, see if I can take some of the workload from you by running these bullets. Ryan and Erick are still processing the scene at the Port."

* * *

"When you care enough to send the best," Ryan quipped as he took a picture of a half meter wide hole in the ground.

"You hear that all the 'guards' will survive?" Erick said.

"Really?"

"Yep. Worst injury was a concussion," Erick said, "Something to do with physics and shockwaves."

"Okay, now, our shooter was up there," Ryan said, looking up at the top of a Connex about 150 yards away, "He fired grenades down here too... what?"

"The lock was broken, probably by bolt cutters," Erick said, "So one guy makes them run, the other sneaks in and steals something?"

"Maybe," Ryan said, "Let's take a look."

Inside were crates of movies, some Indian chick-flick, that hadn't been touched. At the rear, however, separated by a _very _realistic fake wall, were crates of another sort. Refrigerated ones. Ryan pried open one, and looked to see hundreds of bottles of pills, syringe bottles of something-or-the-other, and other medical who-ha.

"This is enough to run a hospital," Ryan said, "None of this stuff looks to be illegal, why resort to smuggling it?"

"Getting it legally requires a paper trail," Erick said, "Whoever wants this wants it discreetly."

Ryan opened another box, and said, "Jesus Christ."

Inside were no less than thirty fully automatic AK-74 assault rifles. In separate crates were ammunition and magazines. _Lots _of ammunition and magazines.

"Hey Ryan," Erick said, "Look at this."

Erick was shining his light on the top of of one of the crates. Like everything else, it was covered in a thin layer of dust. Except for a square the size of a brief case.

"What was so important that they left the guns?"

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!**


	5. Stupidity

**Trev**

"Px-7849320," I said, "Quite possibly one of the most illegal, unethical, just plain _evil _drugs ever to be conceived, designed, manufactured, and, God save us, _used _by mankind."

"What does it do?"

"This is worse than the stuff used in the Holocaust. It puts the combination of German thoroughness and cruelty to shame."

"What does it do?"

"Who in their right mind would _want _to keep a record of how to make this-"

Lyn grabbed my shoulders shook me, "What. Does. _It. Do?_"

I sighed, "I should have recognized it. This was the stuff that destroyed your memory."

She picked up the bottle with a newfound interest, starring intently at it. I continued, "It was a hyper-hypnotic developed by the CIA after word of the Soviet Union's psychic program got out. Grandpa was Special Forces working with the Studies and Observations Group in Vietnam during the waning days of the program. They took VC, fresh from boonies, and injected them with this stuff. Most of them died. The ones that survived, they spilled everything. Hyper-suggestive. If told to shoot themselves in the kidney they would do so. When the stuff wore off, they had memory problems. They couldn't remember what happened when they were under. Continual injections for almost a week destroyed any memory they had. They became babies, learning at an accelerated rate. Then, the CIA learned something else."

"What?" Lyn asked quietly.

"They learned that the ones that survived, they came from the same clan," I said, "There was a genetic predisposition to live when injected with the stuff. The most successful test subjects had the same grandfather. That's why it was shut down."

"How come?"

"At the time, genetics was an obscure, baby field within the scientific community. They didn't have the technology or experts on a large scale to create a project from it. And the head researcher was horrified with the project. He shelved it, hid the formula and the findings in a mislabeled box, ensuring no one would find it."

"Well, someone apparently did," Lyn said quietly.

"They must have found it when the records were computerized," I sat down on the couch, "They are _still _computerizing all there records. They have records going back to the OSS Jed Teams. Thousands of operations. Only a few personnel with the computer skill and the clearance to look at those files. And lets not forget the scientists who created the stuff."

I held out my hand for the bottle. Lyn reluctantly gave it to me, still staring with intensity at the bottle. I looked at it intently, almost feeling the Vietnam humidity and the stifling conditions of a CIA field base hidden in the jungle, "This stuff gave Grandpa nightmares for years after. He never flinched at the things he did in the bush. He was the rare psycho who could kill a man, torture him, and never feel a thing, yet not need to kill, not need to inflict pain. He could take the death of a friend in stride, believing that eventually he would join them. But after seeing the effects this stuff had on those Charlies, he would remember it for years after."

_It took away identities, Jonny-boy, _he would growl, _It made them forget themselves. You can burn a man's face away, make him a skeleton to forever be unknown, at least the man knew who he was when he died. It made them forget _themselves.

It scared the piss out of me as a kid. The thought that I could be made to kill my little brother was almost enough to make me puke. That I would forget my family, my pride, my _everything_, become a tool for another's will. It scared me. It still scares me.

I looked at my Luminox watch, "It's late. Get some sleep. We'll make a plan of attack in the morning."

"What am I, your daughter?" she said.

"I hope Jen never even thinks about working in something as dangerous as you did."

"You have a daughter?" she scoffed unbelievingly.

"Yes. Jennifer Jon Trevodur, eight years old, lives in Albuquerque with my sister," I think she is moving to Quantico to marry my former squadmate. I shall kill Tag later, "She actually looks a little like you."

"Really?"

"Yep," it was actually both endearing and creepy. In some ways, Lyn was what I wanted Jen to be like when she was older. Funny. Smart. A pain in the ass. Sweet. Moral. Deadly(any boyfriends will think twice about copping a feel when she can break their hands a hundred different ways).Beautiful. Yep. I can admit my... partner?... was beautiful.

But she was also things that I never want my daughter to be. Ruthless(I witnessed that firsthand on our first "mission" together.). Willing to lie, cheat, and steal to get the job done. Willing to kill. Somehow, this made me like her more.

She smirked and got to her feet, saying as she went through the door to her bedroom, "If this door opens even a crack, you will see how accurate my shooting is in the dark."

"Will you be aiming at the head?"

"Nope," My liking of her grew even more.

Hoping to protect my nether-regions, and because real sleep doesn't come easy for me, I took the silver briefcase and placed it on the table. I pulled out my Swiss Army Knife set lock-picks. A few minutes of this to calm my mind, and then some sleep.

**The next morning**

** Lyn**

"Damn it, Trev," I sighed as I saw him snoring at the table, a partially open brief case and what looked like a Swiss army knife with detachable lock picks instead of the usual blade and can opener. He must have stayed up hours trying to open that damn thing.

On the other hand, it was the only time I had ever seen him completely at ease. He told me that he was twenty-eight, yet he looked almost five years older. If he joined the Marines at eighteen, then he's had about ten years of increasing stress piled on his shoulders. It was amazing he survived this long.

He was cute, in a certain way, awake he was hyper-focused, always alert. Asleep, he looked more like a kid who was just settling down into the work force. Not a care in the world. Relaxed.

And then it all went away in an instant when he woke up. He just lied there and scowled, without opening his eyes, "How long were you watching me?"

"You're kinda cute when you sleep," I replied truthfully.

"Thanks," he deadpanned, trying to sit up, "Ow." he rubbed the back of his neck.

I smiled and offered, "Here," I looped my arms under his armpits from behind, resting my fingertips at the point where the jaw meets the skull. And, in a clockwise rotation, from base of spine to head, I bent him forward and back, causing his joints to pop like a machine gun and he gasped in momentary pain. I felt something funny, however.

"Oh my God," I gasped, "Trev, your _knots_ have knots."

"I'm somehow unsurprised," he quipped, back to being the slightly annoying but ever reliable and somewhat entertaining ass I know and love, "Now let's see what was so important that they had to place it in this nearly unbreakable brief case."

I opened it and said, "What the hell?"

* * *

"I ran the slugs recovered from the car through the system, no matches," Natalia said.

"The fletché was a polished down piece of rebar," Calleigh explained, "I got nothing on national database, so I went Interpol. It's been used in almost six country's, and the British want in to help us catch this guy."

"He's carrying serious hardware," Ryan added, "Spectrographic analysis told us that this was 'off-the-shelf' High-Explosive. We managed to narrow it down to a specific batch. The company that made it reported it missing four years ago."

"We're still not done processing the contraband found in the Connex," Erick said, "What we've found so far is enough to run a hospital. A very... _militant_ hospital."

"Calleigh, call the British, tell them to give us their file on this guy, and if we need more, we'll ask politely," Horatio said, "Erick, finish processing, I'll see if I can get a complete manifest from Mr Córtez. Ryan and Natalia will help you."

"Got it, H," they said as they went to work.

Natalia muttered, "Man, Walter can't get back soon enough.

* * *

"Now, Mr Córtez, you can either help us or-"

"You have nothing on me, Lieutenant," the smuggler shot back smugly, "I told you there would be a terrorist attack on the Port, I even told you exactly where. I never revealed how I knew that."

"Let me _guess_" Horatio growled, looking for all the world like the scariest, most pissed off asshole killer to roam the planet. The glare he was giving Cótez could scare babies out of bikers, "You _overheard _them?"

Córtez was either very stupid, very brave, or both, "That's right."

Horatio changed tactics, smiling that scary smile down at the short, fat Cuban, "The second you leave this building, I can no longer protect you from whoever stole your product. Or whoever your customer was."

How the hell did this man ever last this long? "I'm just an upstanding citizen of Miami."

* * *

Whistling to himself, and prideful of both his intelligence and the cops stupidity, Cótez parked his car and strutted up to his door at his very large and fancy house. He feeling so self assured, so indestructible, that he never noticed, or if he did, her didn't care, that his usual guards were no where to be seen. Indeed, the entire place seemed empty.

"_¡__Puta! __¡__Hazme un sandwich!"_ he shouted as he entered the house, ready to order around his bitch wife and feeling like a good sandwich.

Only silence answered him, "_Pu-"_

Someone slammed him into the wall, and jammed the barrel of a gun into his face, "Where's the product?"

Instantly going from smug smuggler to cowering hostage, he cried, "I don't know! They took me, demanded to know where I was smuggling the product!"

"Did you tell them?"

He instantly started bawling, "The would have killed meeeee,..."

The captor slammed him into the wall again, "Who were they?"

"I don't know," he sobbed, "I don't know. Please beleive meeee..."

The captor calmed down, "Don't worry. I beleive you."

_Whtick!_

The sound of the slide was louder than the firing of the handgun. The Gemtech Oasis was a silenced, .22 Long Rifle handgun. The .22 LR was one of the smallest rounds in existence. When the round penetrated the skull, it lacked the velocitry and mass to carry it through to the other side. Instead, the round bounced around the skull like a little child of death on a sugar high, turning his already pretty useless brain to mush.

The man calmly walked out of the house to the street to be picked up by a nondescript town car.

He had to make an unscheduled appointment with the MDPD.

**NOW, I HAVE HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS. I SHALL NOT POST A NEW CHAPTER TILL I HAVE AT LEAST 1 REVIEW!**


	6. Petri Dish

**Trev**

I expected a bomb, more medicine, Oprah Winfrey.

But this...

"It's a Petri Dish," I stated the obvious. Inside was a circular cut-out in black foam, filled by a circular and air tight dish, "But of what?"

"Well," she made a grab for it but I yanked it out of her way, "I'm not gonna open it!"

"From now on, only the guy with the Medical Degree gets to handle the dish," I said, "I'm gonna need a microscope, plastic Tarpaulin, and duct tape. Oh, and this laptop," I smiled at her expectantly.

"What do you need me for?"

"Yes, the most wanted man in North America is going to go to the mall to get chemical warfare supplies."

"Fine. But I get to buy new shoes."

I rolled my eyes and gave her a debit card to one of my many secret accounts, "Go crazy."

I can't help but remember the last time I said those words to her. I hope she doesn't spend more on shoes than I do on weapons.

* * *

"Horatio, you haven't come for the autopsy report in days!" Dr Loman objected, "I thought you died and I missed announcement!"

"I apologize, Doctor," Horatio smiled at his friend, "I have been busy. This case is unusual."

"It's about to get weirder," Loman said, "Mr Ramon, he died of a cerebral hemorrhage brought on by an aneurysm. I found something on his arm, it turned out to be his snot. He _sneezed_ and died."

"So he wasn't murdered," Horatio confirmed.

"Nope," Loman confirmed, "Conked in the head, woke up, sneezed, then died."

"Thank you, doctor."

**DAMNNIT! I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING! THE WRETCHED WRITERS BLOCK HAS GOT ME!**

** I know I probably don't deserve a review after such a short post, but please give me one. **

** Pretty please?**


	7. Evil

**I am back!**

** Trev**

"Do I even want to know the damage- good God, what did you do to the bellhop?" the man was swamped by boxes of various sizes.

"I also got a massage," she informed me, "You should get one."

I stood in shock as no less than _four _bellhops came in, carrying boxes of various designer brands. Only the last one came in carrying the stuff I needed, "I think it would have been cheaper if you bought the mall itself."

They were so exhausted they didn't lookup as I handed them fifties for a tip. I felt like I was shorting them for the amount of stuff they carried.

She pulled out dress and held it to her body, "What do you think?"

"I think my brother wore more cloth at one time," I answered.

She looked confused, "Oh... kay."

"Of course, he was my little brother and in diapers at the time," I remember _exactly _how much cloth goes into a dirty diaper.

"Very funny," she scoffed.

"I didn't say 'don't wear it'."

"Pig," she shot back, a slight smile on her face.

"Right, help me set this up. I don't want to unleash the bubonic plague on Miami," I said.

**Ten minutes later...**

I can't believe it. We built a functional(at least, as secure as we could get) air-tight specimen chamber out of black tarpaulin, duct tape, rubber gloves I stole from a maid, and the glass table in the room. Even then, all I did was duct tape the plastic to the underside of the table to create a view glass, punch two holes for the rubber gloves and duct tape them closed, and two smaller holes for the microscope lenses.

While I did that , Lyn air-tightened the room. No sense in letting half of Miami die if we fuck up.

"This might take me awhile," I said, "See if you can get a bug into that homicide detective's office, maybe even the CSI lab. I don't wanna be hit by a curve ball."

"You think they can get something?"

"CSIs are like Intel weenies," I explained, "They can do a lot with a pile of dirt," I should know. I spent around a month living in one of the most advanced crime labs in the country. Thankfully these guys aren't as good as the Squint Squad.

She shrugged, "Okay, not like I have anything better to do," she grabbed her purse and headed out the door. I secretly admired the view of her ass, cursing myself at not being able to _do _anything about it.

I grumbled as I took a swab of the Petri dish in the chamber and placed it on a slide, and slid it under the microscope.

"Well this just gets weirder and weirder."

* * *

**Lyn**

I once questioned the amount of contacts Trev has in Miami. His answer was to begin counting on his fingers and toes.

When he ran out, he used mine. He still ran out.

Well, these guys are good, cause I just called one of them, and he gave me a couple of small bugs the size of quarters, plus a transmitter that repackaged the data and sent it to an IP address. Now if only he would brush his teeth.

Breaking into a police building is an embarrassingly easy thing to do. Mostly because they're built more on keeping specific people _in _than _out_. You just have to _not_ be one of those people.

A printer, plastic covering, and janitor overalls is an all access pass. Just leave the gun in the car.

I kept my head down and below a red ball cap, using my hair to frame my face. I looked like a another faceless janitor pushing around a cart. Which was exactly what I wanted.

Bugging the homicide detectives office was easy. He was talking on the phone when I did it.

"So, wait, he got knocked out, woke up, _sneezed_, and then he died?" hmm, apparently Trev didn't kill that guard.

I just stooped down, planted the bug, dumped his trash, and then went on to take all the trash from all the detectives to maintain cover.

He was the only one to say thanks. Man, janitors have it bad.

I made my way up to the CSI lab for a repeat.

When I got there, I was slightly appalled by what my tax dollars were going to.

For one thing, since it was all _glass_ where the hell am I going to put this bug? Secondly, _how the hell did they get all this past tacky American bureaucracy? NCIS HAS ORANGE FREAKING WALLS!_

I grumbled and just pushed my cart, looking for a place to plant the bug. 

* * *

"Wow, the British sure are persnickety," Ryan thought as he flipped through the file that recently arrived from the British consulate, "They got ballistic reports, trace evidence reports."

"Seems the Germans aren't the only thorough people," Natalia laughed. When Ryan and Erick looked at her funny, she quickly explained, "Inside joke, between me and Calleigh."

"Oh... Kay..." Ryan said, "Now, this happened in Bristol, which is in south-west England. The victim was a Jonathan Fogley. He was a real estate developer with suspected ties to drug families in Italy. His car was hit by a projectile like the one Calleigh recovered and he was killed by a gunman with an automatic weapon. Here's the picture recovered from a traffic camera."

"We're looking for a murderous Hello Kitty," Natalia quipped, in observation of the mask the suspect was wearing. She passed it to Erick.

"It's... It's eyes," Erick held the image at a different angle, "They look..."

"_Evil?_" Natalia offered.

"Very," Erick agreed.

"The weapons used by this guy was different," Ryan noted, "The weapon used in Bristol was a 9mm submachine gun. The slugs recovered from H's car were 7.62mm NATOs."

"Different weapons," Erick stated, "But they both had a 40mm underslung grenade launcher, which was used both times."

"They even did a psych profile on the guy," Ryan read from the file, ignoring the janitor dumping the trash, "Let's see, 'Addicted to violence, methodical, college educated, intelligent, calm under pressure, regimented, probably has abandonment issues, military experience'."

"Sounds like a recipe for success."

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	8. It continues

**Trev**

"_Bacillus Inermis,_" I said as she walked through the door, "Literally, 'Harmless Bacteria'. This stuff is found in the human gut, gets there by hitching a ride through the mother's breast milk, so just about everyone has this in their system already."

"Can it be weaponized?" Lyn asked.

"I thought that too," I said, "Since it's already found in the body, it wouldn't be detected as a foreign element. But I checked that, it's not even airborne, won't survive in water, the only way to 'infect' someone with it would be manual injections."

"Then why go through all the effort to smuggle it?"

"It's been modified," I said, "Take a look." I offered her the microscope.

"Okay, I may have helped Abby in the Forensics Lab from time to time, but what the hell am I looking at?"

"See the greenish tinge in the body?"

"No," she deadpanned. I adjusted the focus, "Yep."

"It shouldn't be there," I said, "This bacteria hasn't changed much for over four _million_ years. It had no need to. It has a symbiotic relationship with it's host. And because we discovered this being smuggled to the same guys we are hunting..."

"I don't like where you're going with this."

"I need you to vomit."

"_What?"_

"Calm down," I insisted, "I just need you to spew into this Tupperware."

"This is the _weirdest _request any guy has given me."

"I'm flattered," I deadpanned, "Now get chunkin'."

"Stop saying that!" she demanded as she took the container. She eyed it nervously.

"Just take a finger and wobble your uvula," I suggested.

"My what?"

"That little thing that hangs in the back of your mouth like a speed punching bag."

She visibly steeled herself and, without giving it anymore thought, put her finger down her mouth. Her whole body seemed to convulse as she gaged and spat stomach juices into the plastic container. She glared as she handed it to me.

"Now that wasn't so hard was it?" I chided as I swabbed some of it onto a slide and put it under the microscope, "Yep, same bacteria. Same modifications. For some reason, they injected you with this stuff. It's getting dark. I'll head down to a library and see if I can learn more."

"How much sleep did you get in the last twenty-four hours?" she asked.

"About three," it's even more depressing how much sleep I got in the last _forty-eight _hours. Which is about four.

"Trev," she chided.

"I'll be fine," I insisted, "I run on little sleep all the time."

"I find that easy to believe," she scoffed.

"Look, I can eat. I can work. It's the sleeping part I have trouble with. I'll be fine," I assured, "I'll be back by 2100, which is usually the time they close," I kissed her on the cheek, "Bye," and that's when it hit me, "We forget this ever happened?"

"Agreed," she replied.

"Agreed," I confirmed, distinctly feeling the wet mark on my cheek where she had kissed me.

* * *

I chose the stairs. I didn't want some half-baked security guy watching the elevator cams while watching the news to get a good look at me.

I tried to focus on things _not_ getting weird between me and Lyn. We're a _team,_ not husband and wife.

I sighed as I finally reached the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby.

_MOTHERFU-_

* * *

"It continues, Frank," Horatio said as he surveyed the scene, "What do you have, Doctor?"

"Small caliber round to the forehead, execution style," Loman observed, "No exit wound. Powder burns along the entrance. Bruising along the base of the neck. He was slammed against the wall, then shot."

"Thank you," Horatio said, "Erick, what do you have?"

"I found some prints," Erick replied, "I finished dusting the doors leading into the place from the rear, got some partials. I'll finish with the doors in the front."

"Found some more bodies in the back, looks like his bodyguards," Frank informed him, "Looks like a ghost just decided to come in here and kill everyone. It's spooky."

"No such thing as ghosts, Frank," Horatio assured.

* * *

"This is weird," Calleigh said, looking at the one of the bodies of the guards stuffed into the lawn shed, "The round used to kill Córtez was killed was either a .22 or a .25. These are a 9mm or .38, something around that range."

"Two murder weapons," Erick clarified.

"Definitely," Calleigh said, "Close grouping, three rounds center mass. Sounds like us."

"Or any number of police or military in the world," Erick pointed out, "I'll fan out, see if I can find some brass."

After he left, Calleigh whispered, "I don't think you will find any."

* * *

**FBI Building, Quantico, Virginia.**

"Can someone _please _tell me _why_ we are having such trouble finding _this_ guy!" The Boss demanded, "Jesus Christ, this isn't even the guy we _should _be looking for! This is the guy we look for because he _might _have an _idea _about what _continent _our guy is on!"

The collection of the best and brightest of a plethora of government agencies, some law enforcement and some intelligence, even a few state agencies, frantically tried to find the answer. Honestly, some(CIA and FBI) where still smarting over the insult of having a guy from Navy Intelligence heading Tack Force BURROWER. Most were wondering what in the hell someone must have done(more importantly, _known)_ to warrant a task force of over eighty agents working around the clock.

"Well, he's part of the Russian Mofia, and this is the US..." one very brave agent said.

"US? _US?_" He growled, "Half of you are fucking _CIA_! Are you telling me _that we don't have assets in the former Soviet Union? Jesus Christ!"_ this particularly stung as The Boss had started out his career in the Navy in the US SEAL Teams assassinating Soviet advisors in hot places genrally just called hell.

"B-b, Boss?" one timid guy said.

"Out with it!" it's been a while since he had a drink and his patience was low.

"Um you said to, well ordered actually..." he gulped from a glare. For an old guy, he was decidedly _very _scary, "!"

"And?"

"I, um, I think I found one," the analyst said, all the while _really _wishing for the windowless little room that he had been found in at Ft Meade, "Miami PD just reported this," unbekownst to most, All police agencies, _every _police department, when filing their paperwork, had to send copies to the US Attorneys Office where it was then sent to the FBI, who then sent it to the NSA for analysis. Most of this was then filed in the "junk mail" folder and looked at, well, never. The NSA had more important things to do other than run a simple word search program with a couple hundred keywords. Really, Google used more advanced software.

However, with the creation of the Task Force, this system was being upgraded and revamped to where almost every crime in America, from Johnny Rotten TPing the high school gym to an Ocean-esque bank robbery in Baltimore, was searched and dissected, the analysts looking for certain markers.

"Kidnapping of a local smuggler in Miami, released, then killed less than twenty-four hours after leaving police custody," The Boss said, "You," he pointed at a random FBI Agent, "Link this to Robert Claypool. The sonofabitch may have wiped his memory with drugs, but he can't erase every link. I wanna know this guy's family, employment history, his life story from the time he was a gleam in his daddy's eye to the time a 22-hundredths-of-an-inch of copper and lead ended his life. Go, _go!"_

Finally, since Mike Pierce slipped by with literally half-an-hour to spare, they had a lead.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	9. Mistake?

**BIN LADEN IS DEAD! THE SONOFABITCH IS DEAD!**

** Trev**

When I was a kid, I already had an eye for the details. For example, when I was four, Pa was cleaning one of his handguns. I watched him take the gun, a Glock 17, out of the gunsafe, take it apart, clean it, then put it back in. A few days later, I took the Glock out of the safe, remembering the combination when I saw him open it, took it apart, cleaned it, put it together, then put it back in the safe without my father knowing.

As I got older, my Pa saw this skill, and being a former CIA-paramilitary and of a long line of spies and wet-workers, and trained it. By the time I was thirteen, I could tell which end of the house Sam was going to try to sneak his squeeze out of _before_ he got there. Of course, Ma invited the girl for dinner that night. Awkward.

It wasn't until I got to working with some not-nice people in the State Department that I reached my full potential. The Tracker Team was the brain-child the director of the Political Stabilization Unit. It had everything needed to track down the worst of America's enemies, political or otherwise. Hackers? Had it. Analysts? Them too. But what they didn't have was a very rare skill.

People skills.

The director, Ambler, could read a man like a book. A living, breathing lie detector. He could see when someone ment him harm, was hungry, nervous, high, or all of the above. Of course, he couldn't be out in the field when he had a Unit to run. So when he heard of a young rising star in Iraq working for JSOC who had an uncanny knack for telling when a person was lying during a "field interrogation", he leaped at the chance, recruited me, and taught me the skills of lie spotting.

Which is what screamed in my head when I stepped out into the lobby.

Some one was dangerous in this place, and it wasn't just me.

I ducked my head and focused my gaze onto one of the computers at the far wall. I sat down, opened the web browser, and logged onto a porn site. I used it as an excuse to look around. People tend to notice when you look like your looking for something. If you are logged onto a porn site in a public area, like a lobby, you have an excuse.

Found him. Medium height, nondescript suit, comfortable shoes, skinny, longish hair. Kind a guy you only notice if you look him in the eye.

Scars on his knuckles. Hand-to-hand combat. Perfect balance. Callouses on his palms. The kind you get from shooting a gun non-stop for days. Yeah, he's my guy.

And more importantly, he had the same... look, as Lyn did.

I exited my porn site, got up, and made for the front entrance. I bumped shoulders, recoiled, mumbled "sorry," and continued out with his car keys.

I made my way into the parking structure and walked through, pressing the unlock button every five meters. His was on the third floor. I put on the black plastic gloves I always had on me.

First things first: intel. I checked the glove compartment. Rental agreement. Owners manual. Armrest compartment. Empty. Trunk. Empty. This car was sanitized. Not even a candy wrapper.

I reached into the small of my back and withdrew the SIG Saur I had there. I stored it under the seat.

One quick call later, and the Maimi-Dade Police Department sent a nearby unit to check up on a anonymous call that reported a suspicious person hiding a gun in his car.

I can't wait to see what surprises Patriks has set up for them.

* * *

**CSI Crime Lab**

"Hey, Erick," Calleigh greeted as she opened the evidence box.

"That the murder weapon?" Erick asked.

"No, it was found in a car in Miami springs," she said, checking the serial number, "Serial number is intact. I'm just gonna run it through the database for now."

She wasn't prepared for what happened when she pressed "enter"

"What the-" the computer went _crazy._ The format broke away and code streamed at light-speed across her desktop. She frantically typed in abort codes, "Someone's burning through our firewall!"

"What's going one?" Erick demanded, taking position at another computer, "This one too!"

The entire lab was in frantic disarray, everyone trying to do something. The worst was going through their minds. Cyber-terrorist attack. System-wide crash. Network hack. Someone gaining access to case notes, safe-house locations, witnesses, undercover NOC lists, everything.

Then the alarm blared, and a building wide quarantine was enacted. Automatically, the cages on the windows closed, doors locked, and everyone was trapped inside.

All the while, a snooper pinged at a computer in Quantico.

* * *

"Boss!" an analyst shouted, "One of our snoopers just pinged!"

"Which one?" he demanded.

The analyst brought up a picture of a man, about fifty, with steel-gray hair and an even more imposing glare, "Someone just ran his weapon through the system."

"Where?"

"Miami-Dade Crime Lab," that's strike two, "Could just be a coincidence."

"With this guy, nothing is ever a coincidence," he growled, "What do we have on Córtez?"

"Small time smuggler, specializes in small items," an analyst replied, "Mostly specializes in guns and drugs for the cartels. This guy is local. ATF and ICE have been trying to get him for years, and the only reason is that he has been so hard to get. Small fish who managed to live a while."

"We have the gun he stole from an NCIS agent when he escaped the Navy Yard," he was still pissed that they arrived literally _seconds _before he escaped, "And a local small time fish kidnapped, then murdered, both incidents happened in Miami. Any report on the evidence collected on the murder?"

"The crime lab is hitting a stonewall," one of them replied, "Witness statements are almost non-existent."

"Johnson," he said, "Book me and, let's see, Cobry, Anton, Jones, Bizerkwitz, Tomazaki, Risher, and Riviera on the next flight to Miami. You hold down the fort here. If anything else pops up, call me and deal with it, got it?"

"Want a private jet, sir?" Johnson asked.

"Doesn't matter," Special Agent Patriks, Office of Naval Intelligence replied. He whispered, "I hope that for once, Trev, you've made a mistake."


	10. Tightening the noose

**Sorry I have not updated in a while. Spring Football has started and we burn the midnight oil.**

"If you don't stop it with the harmonica, I will shove it where the sun don't shine," Calleigh threatened. Ryan promptly removed the instrument from his lips.

"Why haven't they cut through already?" Natalia asked.

"The FBI has given orders for us and everyone in the building to remain in custody," Horatio said.

"Can they do that?" Erick asked.

"The FBI didn't issue the order. The President did."

"_The President?"_ Natalia said.

"The gun that Calleigh logged into the system turned out to be a lead in a major terrorist operation," Haratio said

"What could have someone done to deserve this?" Calleigh asked.

"A-hem," a man stood in the doorway. He looked about fifty, with the hard, deepset eyes of a heavy drinker and more gray hair than black, "Special Agent Patriks, Office of Naval Intelligence."

"And how did you do all of this?" Eric asked, gesturing at the still closed off walls.

"Some sort of hacker-thing that my computer geeks came up with," he said. His voice sounded gavelly, "That gun you logged in was stolen from a Navy compound."

"The Navy does all this for one gun?" Calleigh asked. Even _she_ wouldn't go through this much trouble if one of _her _guns were stolen. Well, maybe.

"It's not the gun, it's the guy who stole the gun."

Horatio made the immediate leap, "Micheal Peirce," he said.

"Former Delta and DEVGRU operator, worked for the DIA and later ONI," Patriks said, "A rogue spy-slash-operator. He was on a special mission in an unspecified city on an unspecified continent, and his handler was found dead. A few days later, makes contact to be picked up. No-show. A task force was formed to find him, even if it was just to confirm he was dead. I was chosen to lead it as I know him personally. A few weeks ago, he was found and captured at the Hellbourne Industries debacle."

"We know the story," Horatio said, "It was on the news for a while."

"What you don't know is that we managed to link the CEO, Robert Claypool, to the assassination of a Navy Admiral that was in charge of procurement," Patriks said, "And what was never revealed was that the shoot-out at Hellbourne wasn't between federal agents and his private security. It was a three-way battle, between the security, the agents, and Peirce. There was also an unknown party that managed to get away from the complex with Claypool in tow. We eventually found Claypool in a storage unit in downtown DC. Peirce, as you know, was captured, and held by Naval authorities before they identified him. He escaped and 'interrogated' Claypool. We showed up literally five minutes after he left. We lost track of him after that."

"Why so much effort being put into finding a single former SEAL?" Eric asked.

"It's not who he is, it's what he knows," Patriks said, "He knows NOC lists, procedures, safe house locations, cache's, operations. It makes for a scary thought if someone has bought him. It's even scarier if he's doing this freelance."

"So this task force's job just went from MIA to capture?" Eric said.

"Yep. Doubled it's size in as little as three days. We started searching for him, and more importantly, what he's after," Patriks said, "And the gun you logged in, that was stolen during his escape from the Navy Yard in DC. And the Agent he stole it from wants it back. Where did you find it, by the way?"

"In a car in Miami Springs," Calleigh said, "Anonymous tip."

"Is it recorded?" Patriks asked.

"Should be."

* * *

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

_ "Yes, I just saw a suspicious man hide a gun under the front seat of his car."_

"That's him," Patriks identified, "How long ago was this taken?"

"Umm, about nine hours ago," the lab tech said.

"Was it traced?"

"No. Address was given, there was no need to do so."

"Was it logged?"

"Yeah."

"I'll have one of my guys trace it," Patriks turned to Horatio, "Do you have the guy in custody?"

"Yes," Horatio said calmly.

"Can I get in on the interrogation?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Horatio smiled. He liked this agent.

* * *

"Mr Reece," Patriks said, "I am Agent Patriks, this is Lieutenant Caine. We understand that a gun was found in your rental."

"I have no idea how it got there," the man said, "I don't even own a gun."

"Or a house," Patriks said, "Mailbox is on the Hudson River in New York..." he manuevered around into the suspect's blind spot, "No credit history, other than a few recently issued company cards, and..." with a singular movement, Patriks grabbed Reece's arm and slammed it down, palm up, "Those calluses? They come from shooting 500 rounds a day, which no civvie would ever do."

"I want a lawyer," Reece demanded.

"Mr Reece," Horatio said, "The gun fund in your car was stolen by a known terrorist. Until we find a connection between you two, we have to assume the worst."

"Which means, that under the Patriot act, you do _not_ have the right to an attorney, you do _not _have the right to remain silent," Patriks quipped, "Meaning, that until I get every piece of information out of you, I get to... get every piece of information out of you."

_It is going to be a long day for you, Mr Reece_, Horatio thought.

* * *

**Trev**

My eyes were beginning to droop again when Lyn put a steaming cup of coffee under my nose. I immediately perked up a bit, "Thanks."

"What'd you find?" she asked, pulling the cup away before I could take it. I was dimly aware of her in a light blue tank top, red silk boy shorts, and an open robe. But, I was too tired to care.

"That green spot is an organelle that releases Gleratonine," I said, "It's weird, since Gleratonine is already found naturally in the body. I mean, everyone has it. The kidneys recognize it as domestic and don't even filter it out at high levels. It's harmless."

"What's it do?" she asked.

"It's a peptide that signals the release of specific enzymes in the body," I said, "Most have to do with the breakdown of foreign substances. Please, I really need that coffee."

"Answer the question," she said, looking amused.

"Also can release enzymes that..." and that's when my tired brain nabbed the answer that was just on the tip of my tongue, "That protect against specific poisons in the body, particularly of Benzodithiopentotholazide family, of which Px is one!"

"So the bring in a poison and the cure with them?" Lyn asked.

"No, it's not being used as a poison," I said, "It's what was used to wipe your mind. The bacteria was meant to be injected into the subject, then the bacteria would then begin to make Gleratonine. The Gleratonine would then release the enzymes needed for the subject to survive continuous injections of Px!"

"Which increased learning curve of the subjects," Lyn continued.

"It explains how you learned 20 languages in 6 months," I said. I tried, and succeeded in surpressing a yawn.

Lyn was not fooled, "I swear, I should just put you into bed," pause, "Wait, that came out wrong."

"Ya think?" I said, "Guest bedroom is this way?" what kind of hotel room has a guest bedroom?

I was barely awake long enough to get my boots off, and then I nodded off to sleep.

_Fallujah, Iraq, 2004..._

_ We were sent in to mark buildings for airstrikes and coordinate artillery. After the Marines were sent in, we were to withdraw and be on a bowstring for quick response. In reality, we would be in the city for the duration of the battle._

_ I was, like last time, in Task Force 4116, a joint US-British-Iraqi counter-insurgency special mission unit. I was the youngest guy on the Force. The other members of my squad was Winnie, a Brit of the SBS and the team leader, Mark, of the Air Force's 24__th__ Special Tactics, was the CC, Combat Controller, and Fingers, of the Navy EOD. I was brought along, as usual, as a translator._

_ My language skills were not needed in our current predicament._

_ "Mark, watch my six," I said calmly, even though my heart was hammering. I went up to the door smashed it in with my shoulder, turning right as I did so. Mark went left. Winnie brought up the middle, with Fingers bringing in rear security._

_ It was clear. Winnie ordered, "Boyo, your upstairs," I was already climbing._

_ No insurgents in the roof. We were made our way east, moving from flat roof to flat roof, following the sound of gunfire. A platoon of Iraqi soldiers had been ambushed. Rather than fight their way to the rear, as they should have done, they chose the path of least resistance, which lead to the heart of Hajji country. I hoped the Green Berets were happy._

_ When we got there, the insurgents had surrounded the Iraqi platoon, which was holed up in what passed for a convenience store. They at least had set up fields of fire, but their accuracy leaved much to be desired. The seemed to believe if Allah wanted them to kill someone, then he would guide their bullets._

_ I didn't know how we were to rescue them. But we were the closest team in the area and it would be bad for the moral of the fledgling Iraqi Intervention Force if a platoon was wiped out._

_ "Awaiting orders," I said._

_ "Covery fire, distract them, then run like hell and, God help us, they chase," Winnie said._

_ Great. I got a bead on an insurgent, squeezed. Dead insurgent. Bead. Squeeze. Dead. Bead. Squeeze. Dead._

_ After the first three. Someone noticed that someone was attacking them from behind. He turned around and looked confused. And then I shot him in the chest. And his buddy saw and started firing in our general direction._

_ What happened later was a twelve hour fighting retreat back to the front lines. The Iraqis believed that the enemy was retreating and gave chase._

_ Fingers died when an IIF soldier saw him and shot him. For once, his aim was dead on._

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	11. Interesting

**Lyn**

"Morning, sleeping beauty," I said as I heard him walk out of the guest bedroom.

"Waffles," he begged, "Coffee."

"Got the last part," I said as I handed him a paper cup with the hot brew. Cream, no sugar. Just how he liked "crap coffee". I continued, "I've been listening to the recordings while you have been asleep."

"How many bugs did you plant?" he asked.

"Twenty," I replied.

"And you listened to them _all_?"

"No," I scoffed, "This computer is amazing. It has a program where I isolate a piece of dialogue," I highlighted a selected portion, "Click _search_," I right clicked and selected the option, bringing up a window, "Select the variation allowance," I set it for 80%, "And it searches for repeats of the sound."

"And where did you learn how to do that?" Trev asked.

"See, it's this magical button called the 'help button'."

"Snarky does not look cute on you," he said, "Find anything interesting?"

I pulled up the interrogation, "He's good. Doesn't hesitate, calm and collected."

Trev listened closely to the interrogation. He closed his eyes and cocked his ear to the computer, "Stop," I paused it, "Rewind, thirty seconds."

I did so, and the recording played.

_"Do you know any one by the name of Jon- no H- Trevinski?" _I recognized the voice of the agent, Patriks.

_"No, name doesn't ring a bell."_

_ "What about a... Trevor McDonald?" _This time it was the redhead cop, Caine or something.

_"I don't know anyone by those names."_

_ "Mr Reece, these are known aliases of Micheal Pierce, and if you withhold any information that may lead to his capture, that is a felony." _Patriks.

_"That guy on the news?"_

_ "Yes, him."_

_ "I- I don't know anything about that."_

"Stop," Trev commanded, "Right there, a lie."

"How do you know?"

"I spent a week picking apart an interrogation performed by Hal Ambler against a method actor. I went over the video a hundred times, slow motion, rewind. I finally picked it out on the audio. The guy's voice was wrong. In _one_ word, he put too much stress on the first vowel. Just like now."

"And that is how you tell he's lying?"

"Give me two hours with this interrogation recording and I will prove that he is either lying or not."

"By looking at how he stresses a vowel?"

"It's about 60% accurate. If I find more, will that satisfy you?"

"What am I going to do in the meantime?"

"Get into Reece's room, see if anything hinky is in there."

"And if the cops show up?"

"Use your imagination. I'll give you warning if I hear them ordering a search of the room over the bug."

* * *

It was all a matter of lying sweetly to the front desk guy to get a card key and room number.

It was an average hotel room, nothing special. Usual discount furniture that looked fashionable nailed to the floor.

I opened the closet, and sure enough, the safe was there. It had a key pad, but also a masterkey lock in case of malfunction. I just got out my picks and ruthlessly opened it.

Ah... interesting...

**Please review!**


	12. Proof

**Trev**

"This is interesting?" I asked.

"It is _very _interesting," Lyn replied.

"Lyn," I said, "This is a business ID."

"Not just any business ID," Lyn argued, "It's the same ID I had when I worked for them."

"It's a business ID," I repeated.

"Look, every once in a while, I to get into private offices because that kept up my cover as a day trader. I used _that _same company ID to get in."

"It's a flippan business ID," I repeated.

"It's better than what you had," she argued, "'_He didn't look right_,' really? What do have against my idea?"

"I didn't think of it," I said with absolute seriousness. She playfully hit me in the shoulder. Hard.

"What'd you find?" she asked.

"Well, MDPD uses a node-system for communication," she drew a blank look, "Wow, never thought _I'd _be the one to explain technology. OK, it's essentially that Miami is divided into 'sections' for police and fire communication. One section for every office or station, police or fire. These sections have comm nodes that are linked like a web. These nodes would essentially look like a gray box on a telephone pole. Should one node malfunction, the slack can be picked up with minimal loss of communication, and it's cheap and easy to repair. However, should a node be shut down, there is about a five minute window between the time that it fails to the time that the slack is picked up. We get rid of the right node, and for five minutes a small section becomes a black hole for the police."

"Get rid of enough..."

"And we can isolate an entire section," I finished.

"What does that do us?"

"I'm thinking we pull a Frowning Freddy."

* * *

"Something about this rubs me the wrong way," Patriks said.

"What is it?" Horatio asked.

"It's the fact that Pierce didn't kill Córtez when he was done with him," Patriks clarified, "At Hellbourne, he killed his entire stock of mercs. Why wait until a day later to kill Córtez?"

"I only know where the evidence leads me," Horatio replied, "The evidence says that Córtez died twenty-four hours after he was kidnapped."

"Córtez was a smuggler, right?" Patriks asked, "He smuggles something for someone, who Pierce either doesn't like, or is targetting."

"Which would mean that whoever killed Córtez did so in retaliation," Horatio said, "Where does Reece fit into this?"

"Reece _might_ have been the one to kill Córtez," Patriks said, "Or at least, had a part in it. In this way, Pierce thinks he's, what, helping us?"

"Or kicking a hornet's nest," Horatio realized.

Patriks smiled, "Good thinking," he looked at the whiteboard filled with what they had, "Okay, so let's say that Pierce _is _kicking the hornets nest. It would explain the kidnapping and murder, Reece, and the attack on the port. What it would not explain is the kidnapping of Robert Claypool a month ago."

"Maybe he needed to find _where _the hornets nest is," Horatio suggested.

"I'm beginning to like you," Patriks said, "So, he doesn't just take Reece... why?"

"Because he can't?"

"Either because Reece has buddies to back him up..."

"Or it was a spur of the moment decision..."

"Which means..."

"Reece wasn't a primary target..."

"But something to get out of the way..."

"Or to use as bait," Horatio finished.

Patriks nodded, "I'll call up one of my guys in Quantico, tell him to monitor all the Traffic cams along the station."

"They can do that from Quantico?" Horatio asked.

"One of my boys charged 50 high price hookers on the Premier of China's credit card from a dorm in Stanford."

* * *

**Trev**

_ Tap tap._

Idiot 2 looked up to see my Smith & Wesson 10mm against the glass. Lyn did the same with her Five-seveN on the passenger side to Idiot 1. I smiled genially at them, "Open the back door."

They did as instructed, and we slipped comfortably in the back. It was nice. Audi, leather interior, black body, looked sleek and fast. We kept our weapons trained on the back of their heads, "No funny business. Follow our instructions. And we all sing kumbya afterword, okay?" they remained silent. I fired into the radio, the gunshot deafening in the close confines of the car, "I'm a military man, so sound off."

"Yessir," they said in monotone.

"Give me all communication devices, anything with a GPS," I instructed. They handed over Blackberries and iPhones, "That all?"

"Yessir," they replied, voice still monotone. Creepy. And they lied, too.

"Bullshit," I called, "Another lie, and I have Lyn here kneecap you, and she... goofed... the last time. Accidentally hit a vein and the guy bled out before any useful information could be recovered."

She puckered her lips like a petulant child, "I'm simply _dying_ for another chance."

"Right," even though we planned on her being the Enforcer, it was still kinda creepy, "So?"

They handed over smaller units that looked like black dice. I threw them, along with the phones, out the window, "Now, pull foreward."

* * *

_"You need to look at this, Boss," _a very geeky Asian guy said from the computer screen, _"I entered the basic parameters for Pierce, based on algorithims-"_

"Miaski, what did I say about words with more than 3 syllables?" Patriks asked.

The geek rolled his eyes, _"I typed some magic words and wizard box do magic things,"_ Patriks scowled, but stayed silent. An explanation he could understand _was_, well, an explanation he could understand, _"Look."_

A grainy black and white image from a traffic cam picked up a man walking up to a sedan and what looked like tapping the window with his hand. On the otherside, a woman appeared to do the same thing. Patriks focused on the man's face. Despite the bad light and grainy image, Patriks saw...

_Him._

Months of chasing down every lead, questioning every friend, enemy, and acquaintance he ever made, poring over bank account records and spread sheets, reviewing mission files, and after action reports and expense accounts and God knows what else and here, in Miami, the first, _tangible _proof that he was here.

A grainy, black and white photo.

"Who's the woman?" Patriks demanded.

_"No clue,"_ Miaski reported, _"At no point does her face shown."_

"What's her dimensions?"

_"I did some calculations, based on the height of Audi, she's about 175.25 centimeters, 61.23 kilograms-"_

"For those of us _not_ familiar with the metric system!"

_"5 foot 9 inches, 135 pounds. Dark hair, light skin."_

"We just described 25% of the woman in Miami," Patriks said, "I want everyone on this. Reread every file, find _any_ mention of someone matching that description. Is Dr Brennan still under surveillance?"

_"Yeah,"_ he reported, _"She's been in DC ever since the Hellbourne incedent. And her FBI boyfriend is... scary."_

"I'm scarier," Patriks said, "Tell Greyson to search over investigative reports for anyone matching that description. When your done, I want Miami shut down tighter than a constipated nun's ass. _Nothing_, goes in or out without our knowing."

_"Eww."_

"Track that Audi. I want to know where it is _now!_"

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	13. escape

The sirens sounded as the police surrounded an old abandoned parking structure, "_Mike Pierce, this is the police! Come out, with your hands in the air!"_

"It's too easy," Patriks said as he exited Horatio's Hummer, "It's too easy. It's-"

_**BOOM!**_

Horatio was slammed forward by the explosion, hitting the Hummer painfully. He heard ringing in his ears. Only ringing. High and loud. Painful. Hurting. The _ringing._

Make it stop.

And then his lungs began to _burn_ like he had breathed in capsicum. His nostrils burned. He coughed and retched and it made his lungs burn _more_. Just one thought made it through his mind.

_Get out._

He struggled up to his feet and staggered away, anywhere but here. Get out, get out, _get out!_

* * *

**Trev**

Hollywood special effects guys like to gunpowder with a high sulfur content. It creates a large flame and with a small bang. Explosives with a high phosphorus content, however, have a lot of concussive force with a bright flash, which is why they are used in flash-bang grenades. The little amount in flash-bangs mean only a loud bang, however. Pack enough, and you get something that can take apart a city block. Or, confuse about forty police officers.

The CS gas was just icing on the cake.

We raced the Audi, the two idiots in the trunk, smashing through the first wave of cop cars and slamming the brakes, and yelled "Now!"

* * *

"Frowning Freddy," Patriks rasped, "He pulled a fuckin Frowning Freddy on _me_."

"What is," Horatio asked, in between breaths from a breathalyzer, "A Frowning Freddy?"

"Friedrich Guast was an arms dealer in Algiers," Patriks said, "Me and Pierce were working together. We hunted him. He hunted us. We lured him to a little shack on the outskirts of the capitol. He came personally. Blew explosives from behind him, capture him in the confusion and got away. My own fucking _plan_."

"H!" Eric said, "Where's Calleigh?"

"Has... she been... admitted..."

"No," he shook his head, "I checked."

Pattriks said it all in one word, "Crap."

* * *

Calleigh had been slowly coming too. At first, it was the vague feeling of pain between her eyes, along with nausea. She was only slightly aware of her hands and feet being bound to a chair. After what seemed like a while, she realized it was duct tape. And she heard whistling. Cheerful whistling.

Suddenly, the black bag over her head was yanked away. She blinked under the glare of a harsh light. She could only see what was about a foot in front of her. The rest was a maze of half shadows. He continued to whistle softly.

She could hear a figure rummage around, and the snap of latex gloves. On a small table the figure laid our pliers, a curved needle, some sort of thread, a vial, and a syringe. She couldn't see the label on the vial.

The figure stepped partially into the light, visible from the midriff down. He plunged the syringe into the vial, filling it with a small amount, flicking the _very_ big needle to rid it of air bubbles.

"Let's begin," Micheal Pierce said cheerfully.

**Please Review!**


	14. 578 Aubrray

"Stop moving!" Pierce snapped, "Be a good little captive and let me anesthetize that wound!"

"What wound?" Calleigh demanded.

He pulled out a cell phone and took a picture. He showed it to her. On the side of her head, a small but nasty looking gash stood out, just below her hairline. It would need stiches.

"How do I know that is local anesthesia?"

He nonchalantly injected it into her forearm. She protested in a genteel manor.

"Wow," Pierce said, scratching his ringing ears, "I thought hearing Chief Barton in the Navy was an impressive display of badmouthing. Need some soap to wash your mouth?"

"No, I don't need-" she didn't finish describing what she didn't blanking need as he then began to poke repeatedly with the needle. She didn't feel it.

"We have a little trust here, now?" the terrorist asked, "Jeeze, what happened to the days when hostages feared their captors? I miss the bad old days."

"You won't get away with this," Calleigh declared, "You have FBI, MDPD, the whole country looking for you."

"Yeah, don't mean I can't mess with you while I can," he said as he refilled the syringe with anesthesia, "Besides, I got an escape route if things get too dicey."

"And that would be?" she asked as he stuck the needle in the general area of the gash. She felt her left eyebrow grow heavy.

"I want you to take a moment and think before you answer," he said, "Did you really I'd tell you?"

"It was worth a shot," she said.

"No, it really wasn't," he looked a little insulted, "Seriously, I'm not stupid. That's why I know I can't out run you guys forever, and hence escape plan."

"So who is your target?" she asked. Keep him talking. Make him feel like he has all the power...

"I can honestly say I haven't a clue," he said, using the pliers and needle to begin stitching up her head, "Few leads, though. It's process, investigations, you know."

"No plan?"

"Somewhere between Jack Sparrow and Danny Ocean. Now hushup. I gots me some plans for you."

* * *

**Lyn**

"There is no way in hell this is going to work," I said as I uncoiled the wire.

"It will," Trev assured me, "I developed this when I served in Force Recon, 'Make a them shoot where you aren't'. Same principle, just on a larger scale."

"Hey, why would they use the alias 'Mike Pierce' when they put out those BOLOs?"

"Mike Pierce was the name of a friend who worked in Naval Intelligence when I was a Marine," he said, "No family, bit of a loner. Killed in one of those top secret missions, being where he wasn't supposed to be but ordered to be. No death certificate was ever issued. A few months latter, a guy in State Department wanted me for a task force that would require me to be separate from the Marines. SECNAV didn't want to lose such a valuable operator, so I took Pierce's name and joined the SEALs."

"Seems kind of... wrong."

"You obviously did not know Mike," Trev pointed out, "Drank like fish, cursed like a, well, sailor, and was a huge fan of... um..."

"What?"

"He used the term 'Foreward Lateral Hip-Thrusts'."

"Huh?"

"Heterosexual PT."

"Ugh, really? He chose to call sex _that?_"

Trev only chuckled, "Carefull with that. It's supposed to be a Thermobaric Weapon. They have a slight tendency to be unstable."

I failed to keep the humor from my voice, "Yeah, _slight._"

* * *

The team was buzzing from adrenaline and coffee, pulling all stops to find Pierce. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

"What do you mean, we _lost them?"_ Patriks demanded of his tech man.

Tomazaki quailed before his boss, "They ditched the Audi in another parking lot without functioning cameras. They could be halfway to Fort Luderdale by now."

"_Gah!_" Patriks cursed, "Lieutenant, have your guys found any trace on the Audi?"

"We're going over it with a fine-toothed comb," Horatio said, his eyes hard and angry. This was personal, "It'll take approximately nine hours to process all the evidence."

"Pull more resources, I'll have the FBI lend you more manpower if you need it," Patriks said, "Where the _hell_ is the _fuckin State Department with my intelligence files?"_

"Consular Operations is dragging their feet," one of his aides said, "Undersecretary Ambler says that their having trouble finding finding the files. Apparently they were never converted to digital."

"Bullshit, he just doesn't want us to know that they've been spying on the FBI's turf," Patriks growled as his phone beeped. Suddenly his demeanor changed, "Horatio, trace this number: 964-555-8749," he took a deep breah and answered, putting it on speaker, "Patriks."

_"Hi, buddy,"_ the voice was cold and humored.

"Mike," Patriks replied, "Kidnapping a cop? That's a lot of shit to bring down."

"_I'm flattered by your worry,"_ Pierce chuckled, "_And I haven't harmed her."_

"That's good," Patriks said, "Nothing you've done is unforgivable. Turn yourself in, and we could work out a deal."

_"Now, buddy, you and I both know my body would be dumped into the Gulf enroute to Cuba,"_ he actually _chuckled_ at that.

"You were out, home free," Patriks said, "If it is so dangerous here, why stay?"

"_A reporter once asked John Dillinger why he robbed banks,_" the terrorist said, "_'Because that's where the money is the money is'._"

"So what's in this bank?"

He chuckled, "_If you want to know where you cop is, look at 578 Auburray. But I wouldn't send SWAT in first thing,_" the the line went dead.

"We get a trace?" Patriks demanded.

"Not enough time," Horatio growled, "Auburray, that's right down the road. It's _walking _distance from here."

"Jock everyone up, get HRT here _now_," Patriks ordered, "He's probably booby trapped it someway, so we'll just have to be smarter."

* * *

Horatio and Patriks pulled up, literally two blocks away from the crime lab to a med-sized house. They both drew their sidearms and moved to the door way, HRT and backup not far behind. Horatio peeked through the window, a rare curse exiting his lips.

Calleigh was taped and bound to the chair. All around her were blocks of yellow putty, all with multiple wires leading to an area behind Calleigh and resting on top of a collection of tanks of gasoline, propane, and bags upon bags of fertalizer.

And they seemed to fill the entire house.

**Please Review!**


	15. Spider and Egg

"Not good," Patriks said.

"That is a _big _bomb," Caine observed, "How much damage do you think it could do?"

"If the chemical composition is like that from Oaklahoma City, one barrel could take out a half a block," Patriks said, "Seems like those barrels go throughout the house."

"Can he make a bomb like that?"

"He can make one _stronger_," Patriks declared, "If I had this much material, maximum damage would be..."

Caine cursed and pulled out his phone, "This is Lieutenant Caine, MDPD, begin evacuation procedures for a six square block perimeter around..."

"I really hate Miami..."

* * *

It was almost pitifully easy. Patriks had brought agents from three different agencies. Of course, no one bothered to check exactly _which_ ones he had brought. When flashed quickly enough, a gold badge looks like a gold badge, with almost no difference between FBI and Postal Service Investigation. A cheap polyester suit, off the rack, and an air of arrogance were almost all that was needed to pass as a federal agent.

The confusion of the evacuation only helped matters. Technicians were scurrying this way and that. Officers were trying and mostly failing to keep the evacuation orderly. Files needed grabbing, evidence secured, computers backed up, people needing to leave.

Those in the holding cell were to be evacuated.

A talk to an overworked uniformed officer. A flash of a badge. A mein of arrogance. The transfer of a prisoner to her custody.

No one noticed when she stuffed Mr Reece into her trunk.

* * *

Special Agent Bomb Technician Hank Cobry was careful not to let the small, powerful drill in his hand wobble a single centimeter. Doing so could crack the glass o the window. He remembered how two agents, both FBI SWAT, had breached a building to find that the suspect had wired a bomb to the house's security alarm. Breaking the window had killed both of them. If he cracked this window, then the security system would go off, and half of this city would feel the power of these bombs.

The drill finally put a hole, about a 1.5 centimeters in diameter, in the window without cracking it. He took his optical camera and threaded it through the hole. He looked at CSI Wolf, who held the controls and nodded.

Wolf turned his attention to the screen before him. The controls looked something akin to an oversized brief case, with a screen and joystick in it. Wolf gently moved the joystick, causing the fiberoptic camera to move downward. The picture shown on the screen was not reassuring.

Wires crossed the wall, linked with yellow blocks of explosive putty and computer parts. No going through the walls. He again manipulated the joystick, moving the camera to the right, toward the door. He saw that the door also was wired in a similar manor and cursed.

"Not good."

* * *

"On the upside, it looks like there is not time piece, so we aren't working on a time limit," Cobry said, "On the downside, every opening we have is wired."

"Anti-Tampering?" Horatio asked.

"We think that these," he pointed at the picture of the block of explosive under the window, "Have regulators on them to detect changes in the electrical current. We shut off the power, bomb goes off. We cut _any_ wire, bomb goes off. Break a window, bomb goes off. Fart, bomb goes off."

"So how do we disarm it?" other Make Safe Procedures (MSP) included removing detonators, using liquid nitrogen to freeze the explosives, and other techniques, but that required _getting in_ first. And that avenue was effectively cut off.

"We screw him like he screwed me," Patriks said, "We circumvent it."

Cobry paled, "That's _very_ risky."

"You have a better idea?" Patriks asked.

"What do you mean, 'circumvent it'?" Horatio asked. He hadn't heard of it during his time in the Bomb Squad.

"Me and Pierce were on a mission to rescue an American hostage in a class. One snag in the mission was the fact that the hostage was wired to a bomb, which had a sensor on his heart rate. Remove the bomb and it blows. Pierce took an AED" Automated External Defibrillator, "Hooked himself up to it so it read his heartbeat, then jury rigged it to the bomb. Bomb read his heart beat enough for the hostage to be gotten out. Spent the next twelve hours disarming."

"You circumvent the path of whatever anti-Tampering device is hooked up," Cobry explained, "If done right, you could do almost anything you want to the device. If done wrong, it could detonate the device. It's hard and extremely _risky_."

"And a technique Pierce pioneered," Patriks said, "He probably wouldn't have expected us to consider it, so he wouldn't have built defenses against it."

"'Probably' is not a word I want to hear when dealing with explosives," Cobry said.

"But it could be the only way into the house," Patriks said, "Lieutenant, she's your detective, it's your call,"

Caine didn't even blink, "We circumvent the bomb when the evacuation is complete."

* * *

"_Maneuvering arm through window," _the intercom said. Delko watched while sweating bullets, "_I see the device,_" the arm extended to the wire, "_Attaching circumvention wire," _the little jumper clamp at the end clamped down.

"Wire reading at 15 volts," Delko said, reading from a computer. "Holding steady."

"_Arm 2 is maneuvering through window," _the intercom squawked, this time the arm on the other side of the door_"I see the device,_" the arm extended, "_Ready to attach,"_

"Do not attach until my order," Horatio said into the radio, "Arm 1, prepare to cut."

_"Arm 1 ready to cut," _the radio said.

"Cut and attach on my command," if they broke the circuit too early, then the anti-tampering device would go off. If they attached too early, then there would be two circuits, and the current would be split between them. If that happened, there might be a drop in the current radical enough to set off the bomb, "On my mark... _mark!"_

nothing.

Everyone exhaled the breath they hadn't know they had been holding. Horatio said, "Bomb technicians, you are clear to work."

* * *

Cobry waddled through the door, keeping to the center of the hallway to better see his environment. Throw rugs and debris were to be avoided, lest there be pressure plate underneath. Thankfully, this hallway was made of tile and had a clear path to the hostage. The wires to the blocks of explosive were many and looked complex, but thankfully visible. If all else failed, they could use liquid nitrogen and freeze them. It was one of the simplest jobs he had ever seen.

So why did he have a bad feeling?

He moved to one of the barrels while his partner, Jones, got to work on the explosives wired to the hostage, Detective Dusquesne. He looked at the what he had to work with. What looked like no less than fifty wires were arrayed, with a thin metal plate over the block of explosives, sitting on the blue barrel. It looked for all the world like a spider nestled on an egg.

He gently lifted the "spider" off the barrel of...

Of...

Fuel...

He couldn't _smell_ any fuel.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	16. Back to Evidence

_Hey! It's your boss talking! What happened?_

_ "Boss? I... my head hurts..."_

_ Never mind that! What happened?_

_ "Target got me. Planted a gun. Alerted police. I think they're onto us, Price."_

_ Don't worry. We have contingencies. I need to know if you remember. Tell me exactly where we meet in an emergency._

_ "At the manor. San Manuel Key, 176, three miles off the city limits."_

_ Good, good. Who's left? Have you any word of who's left._

_ "Gobi, he and Mojave are supposed to have watched my back as I scouted the hotel for the target. Sahara and Redwood were last at the corner, ready to strike."_

_ The compound, how is it guarded?_

_ "Eight of us. Oak, Prairie, Sierra, Appalachian, Willow, Rocky, Everglades, and Poplar are guarding it."_

The world was still fuzzy. His head hurt from the morphine. The white haze receded, but everything was still blurred. But the Face. It wasn't the face of Price.

"_Thank you, Reece_," the Voice was a mixture of Price's familiar harsh tones and a new, unfamiliar one, "_Now, we are done with the easy part,_" He took a syringe and filled it with a clear fluid, "Now, the fun part begins. Now tell me _exactly_ how this 'manor' is guarded."

* * *

"The explosive is Playdoh," Patriks said, his voice bleak, "The barrels, half full of water. The detonators, bolts. Wires, pieces of shit gotten from a dump somewhere. 'Anti-tampering' devices, useless computer parts. Fertilizer is real enough, but not a danger without something to blow. We just spent the past six hours giving a lead to man who escaped custody with thirty minutes to spare."

"There was no way we could have known that it was a red herring," Horatio said, "And you couldn't have left Calleigh there."

"No, and that's the problem," Patriks said, "Pierce _knows_ me too damn well. He can predict me too well. And he knows _himself _too well to be predictable."

"Then we make that his weakness," Horatio said.

For once, in what felt like years, Patriks cracked a genuine smile, "Your right. We have no one to interrogate, no contacts to squeeze, no intel at hand. So what do we have?"

"Evidence."

"Evidence," Patriks sighed, "Lord save me from the Age of the Geek."

* * *

"Where are we on the ammunition used in the Córtez murder?" Patriks asked.

Calleigh, who insisted on returning to work despite a head injury and her recent ordeal, said, "The ammunition was Hydra-Shok 9mm, fired from what appeared to be a weapon with a left twist and wide beveling, most likely a Glock. A different set of striations indicate that the weapon was suppressed aswell."

"Hydra-Shok 9mm?" Patriks said, surprised, "That's the type of rounds used by federal and local law enforcement, as well as military." during his tenure with the SEALs, he had seen those types of round put down juiced guerrillas like nothing. Those were rounds on steroids.

"It's weird because the .22s that killed Córtez was a generic off-the-shelf," Calleigh said, "It doesn't fit the profile of Pierce to use two different ammunitions."

"He is wanted," Patriks pointed out, "Maybe this was all he could get?"

"Then how did he have access to enough medical equipment to treat me?" she unconsciously felt the sutures on her forehead. The doctor had refused to take them out on the grounds that they were better than what he could do, "Sutures and local anesthesia aren't exactly common on the streets."

"He doesn't like Hydra-Shok, either," Patriks said, "He prefers a custom ammunition called Double-Tap Ironmans, it has less power per round as a Hydra-Shok but has a thicker copper jacket. Penetrates deeper before mushrooming."

"Well, I have to run some tests but I found what looks like a 10mm Ironman embedded in the radio of the Audi Pierce used to escape," Calleigh said, "Could be a Double-Tap."

"You met Pierce," Patriks said, "Did he seem unstable, or insane?"

"No," Calleigh shook her head, "He was... pessimistic. But almost cheerful about it."

Patriks chuckled harshly, "Yeah. He was always like that. Most of us were. He was confident, wasn't he?"

"How'd you know?"

"Because one of the first things that you learn in SEAL training is that _you will not lose_," Patriks sighed, as if remembering simpler times, "That mentality follows you everywhere. You may die trying, but you will not lose," Patriks said, "Go home, get some rest. You run yourself into the ground, you'll do no one good."

"I can't sleep with a concussion," Calleigh pointed out.

"Then get that Cuban boy-toy of yours to help keep you awake," Patriks said as he left, leaving Calleigh suddenly worried as to how her secret had been discovered.

* * *

"The Playdoh used to simulate Semtex was made three years ago," Wolfe said, "He didn't just go out and buy it. He's been planning this for a long time."

"Maybe not this specifically, but he likes to think of schemes before hand and keep them in reserve," Patriks explained, "He probably giggled with delight to be able to finally be able to do this one,"

"Well, we found numerous prints, some his, some not," Natalia said, "We haven't figured out how to get them off, because the nature of Playdoh doesn't allow us to use conventional dusting and smoking techniques."

"Can you take a high-def picture?"

"Some one's learning," Natalia said, and Patriks looked a little pleased with himself, "But no, the color of the 'Doh doesn't provide enough contrast for our cameras to get an accurate picture. If it was grey, then we _might_ have been able to do it."

"Like I said, in the wings for years."

"What we did manage to find was trace evidence on the Playdoh," Natalia continued, "Whenever you touch anything, a little bit gets on your hands and is transferred to the next thing you touch. Now, the more contact there is and the harder the grip the more likely the transfer. And one thing you grip harder for a long time is..." Ryan gave a drumroll, "Soap."

"Soap?"

"Soap," Ryan said, "You scrub it on your hands and it penetrates deeper than most other substances. It will get mixed into the oils of your skin and stay there for a while."

"We believe that the larger fingerprints are Pierce's, and the smaller belong to the women we caught on camera. So, we looked at the trace found on both Pierce's and his partner's prints."

"Pierce used common carbolic soap, which is found everywhere," Ryan explained, "It's a common restaurant and hotel soap, because it is strong yet has no strong scent."

"But on his partner's, we found a different type of soap made of aloe," Natalia said, handing him a spectrograph, "Lot's of aloe and natural scent. This stuff is high end, not something you would find at a Motel 6."

"So, she's staying somewhere high end," Patriks said, "Anyway to trace it."

"Thankfully, all soaps are required to keep a record with the FDA about the exact chemical nature of their compound," Ryan said, "It will take us a while, but we'll put this into a chemical chain and find out where it was made, but which batch it was and who ordered it."

"I am now officially crowning you two, King and Queen of the Lab,"

Natalia and Ryan looked pleased. Little did Patriks know that he had just become the origin of many a future headache for Horatio Caine.

* * *

In a fancy hotel in South Beach, Lyn cursed. Trev had warned her.

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	17. Shootout at the Hotel

**Lyn**

Destroying biologicals often leaves a bigger trace than the biologicals themselves. Bleach not only smells, but it floresces much more easily than blood does. So, why use bleach when you can use general purpose cleaner that, while it won't completely get rid of the blood, it will destroy enough to make DNA evidence useless.

Everything had to be scrubbed down. Everything I touched. Crime scene techs had no lives. They'd dust the dust in this place if they had too.

I took the apart the containment chamber containing the _baccilus inermis_ and stuffed it all into a larger trash bag.I needed to get rid of the finger prints on the gloves, tape, and bag but didn't know how to do it quickly.

I put on my Bluetooth and dialed Trev's burn phone, "Trev, we got a problem."

_"I assume you mean _other_ than me being a wanted fugitive of the most powerful country in the world and Australia for poaching, which I did _not_ do. Unless Albino's are now considered endangered."_

"At least you didn't blowup a beer factory."

_"Oh, I did that too."_

"Whatever, my cover's blown. They pulled some sort of trace from some of the explosive left behind."

_"Crap. Did they get you're prints?"_

"No. I'm scrubbing down the place now. Where's you're rendezvous?"

_"We'll have to use code."_

"Ah, come on!"

"_Do it._"

I looked around to make sure no one heard, and said, _"nuqDaq 'oH qep Daq?"_

_ " jIH DIchDaq taH nIH pa' Daq cha'maH."_

I silently cursed both whatever geek had programmed me to speak Klingon, and Trev's childhood friend, who dared teach that psycho the same. "Free Willie" as he called him, shall die by my hand.

I continued my scrubbing.

* * *

I did a cursory check of the front lobby before heading to the counter. Seven people were in the lobby. Three were behind the desk. White shirts, red coats and ties. One in the same style dress was at the door. One man, middle age with a paunch and balding head, at the computers. Soft knuckles and chubby fingers indicate no threat. A husband and wife were checking in. the man was tall pale, as was the wife. Hawaiian shirt, bermuda shorts, flip-flops. Wrinkles around the elbows show inactivity. No threat.

I stepped out into the lobby and made my way for the front desk, keeping the front door in my field of vision. I smiled at the clerk, "Hi, I'd like to sign out. Villa suite 4?" I handed him the card key.

"Are you sure miss?" the clerk said. To be fair, he at least put a little effort into the standard response.

"Yes, please," I said. In the corner of my vision, I saw the door open.

Shit.

"Miss?" I snapped back to the clerk, acutely aware of the newcomers in the hotel, "You're credit card?"

"Oh, right," I frantically dug in my purse for it. Christ, since when have I acquired so much crap in here. I had to pull out a few things before I go my wallet and handed her one of the impressive black cards that Trev gave me. My hands trembled a bit as I kept track of the newcomers, acutely aware of the gun in my purse.

My hands trembled as I held them at my sides. My heart thundered. I mentally flexed the muscles I'd need to take down one of them, or draw my gun. Whichever was needed.

"There you go miss, and thank you for staying at the Sunburst," the clerk handed me back my card. I smiled and turned on my heel. I chose a fast pace to the door.

"Hey!"

That word gave me a heart attack. I sped up my pace to the door. I heard him protest.

He grabbed my arm. I tensed, ready to fight.

"You forgot this," the cuban cop said as he handed me my phone. I left it at the front desk.

"Oh," I felt almost painful relief. I smiled and took back my phone, "Thank you, officer."

"Haven't seen that model. New?"

"Custom," I said, "Nothing but the best."

"Alright, have a good day, ma'am."

"You too, officer-"

Suddenly, a hailstorm of bullets opened up.

* * *

Delko ducked as the staccato of bullets zipped over his head. It always seemed like the world was put on fast forward and he could barely keep up when the bullets started flying.

He saw two males, early twenties, gang tattoos, other side of street. About forty-fifty feet away. He drew his weapon. His heart hammered. A drop of sweat dripped down his neck.

He fired. Once. Twice. Thrice.

One of the shooters jerked three times as the bullets slammed into him. The second shooter leveled his weapon at Delko.

The second shooter doubled over as if he were hit in the gut.

For once, his eyes were fast enough to see everything.

Blue sedan. Parked, hundred feet away. Almost the same distance from the shooters as Delko was. And the flash. The flash that illuminated everything.

Hard, bright green eyes that almost glowed in the muzzle flash. A face that was ordinary, neither handsome now ugly. But frightfully forgettable. And the look of pure concentration, as if the world did not exist but for this one shot...

The face of Mike Pierce.

In one instant, his eyes met Delko's.

He could see the curse form on Pierce's lips as he turned and started the car.

Delko raised his weapon. He had one shot...

_Bang!_


	18. Shootout at the Park

**Trev **

I really hate Miami.

I felt one of my rear tires go out. I cursed and gunned the engine. It was entirely possible to drive without a tire. I adjusted my steering to compensate for the drift. Pulled all the lessons from Pa about driving with a bum tire.

Surprising amount, really.

I figured I had maybe fifteen seconds before-

Oh, why, of course that godforsaken Hummer is on my tail in five seconds.

I gunned the engine and struggled to maintain control as the car pulled left and right like a menopausal housewife. I gritted my teeth and swung it left, cutting across traffic and into the sidewalk. I felt the rim and tire fall off and the back left drop and skid. I cursed. But the damage was done. I was at the sidewalk.

I maintain a mental map of the surroundings of the surroundings of any place that I am going to be spending a significant amount of time. The Sunburst Hotel was situated near a minor waterway. If I got to that, Mother Ocean would protect me. They'd have to coordinate with the MDPD Maritime and it could take an hour for boats to be there. In that time I would be gone.

I launched myself out of the car. Between me and Mother Ocean was one of those parks/botanical gardens. It was situated in a depression. Winding walkways flanked by concrete terraces filled with plantlife led the way down to the depression. In the middle of the depression was one of those weird neo-impressionist statues of twisted metal.

I hopped onto the terrace and jumped over depressed walkway. It took all my concentration not to send myself face first into the concrete.

I landed in the depression proper. Between me and Mother Ocean was about fifty yards of open space and railing about four feet tall meant to keep kids from falling in.

It's what we were taught. In Recon School, BUD/S, all amphibious schools I went to. Mother Ocean was your friend, if you were tough enough and smart enough to survive. If in doubt, head toward the ocean. Or the river. Any body of water in which you can hide and evade.

All these thoughts left my mind as I felt a bullet zoom past it.

In a flash I had my Smith & Wesson 10mm in my hands. My mind became like that of an alligator. If you kick an alligator, it bites you without hesitation. I mentally figured the direction of the shooter based on the feel of the bullet as it zoomed by.

Left side.

I leaped to the right side of the statue and brought my weapon to bear. My eyes locked onto them. Three of them. Hanguns, mid-sized. Black. Different colored suits. In the lead was Grey, on his left was Black and the right was Brown.

I fired twice. Brown crumpled as the 10mm DoubleTap Ironmans entered his body and mushroomed.

Black and Grey split. Black went right, Grey right. In my peripherals I saw Black fire at something out of my field of vision. I saw Black jerk and crumple as someone shot him back.

Grey fired at my. I felt the statue vibrate as the rounds connected with my cover. I narrowed my field of vision to the triangle made the outside of his eyes and his chin.

I fired once. He crumpled.

I sprinted to the water. Adrenaline pumped through my veins.

I heard "_Officer Down!_" as I jumped into the safe, cool grasp of Mother Ocean.

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	19. Choose a Side

_"Oh, my God..."_

Most "hidey-holes" are about the size of a walk-in closet. Usually, it has one exit, and even if it does have two, it's mostly just a hole leading to the waterway outside. This wasn't like that.

It looked like a surgery theater. Except, with a concrete floor instead of tile, what looked like a dentist chair from Hell surrounded by flatscreens and IV injectors and speakers and God knows what else. In one corner was a treadmill. In another was a fold-up bed. In another was a computer. In another was, in full view, was a toilet. At the end was what looked like an underground dock for mini submersibles. Two bodies in lab coats were lying in dark pools of blood.

"What is this place?" Cobry asked.

"Looks like something out of a sci-fi movie," Wolfe said.

Horatio looked around, and his mind began to picture it...

_Restraints. There were restraints on the chair. Whoever sat there sat their unwillingly. They screamed in pain and terror as they were pumped full of drugs. The screens flashed images. Horrifying images. _

_ When they were done, they dragged the subject to the bed. The subject fell into a fitful sleep. In a few hours, they would drag them again from the bed that offered no protection, to more horrors._

"Why would Pierce attack this place?" Tripp asked.

"If he's after these people..." Wolfe said, "Maybe he's the lesser of two evils?"

"We were told to find Pierce," Cobry said, "He went rogue. Killed his handler in Shanghai. Evaded the retrieval team."

"How possible is it that someone had infiltrated the US intelligence apparatus?" Horatio asked.

"Infiltrated? Not very," Cobry said, "Turned a low-level employee to give them a Trojan into the mainframe? So possible it's scary."

"How often does that happen?" Wolfe asked.

"Not often, but often enough," Cobry said, "Problem is, things like that are often hard to find until it's too late. If an organization is careful enough, they can operate for years on a single Trojan."

"What was Pierce's mission in Shanghai?" Tripp asked.

"No idea," Cobry said, pulling out his cell phone, "But I know someone who might."

* * *

**Trev**

While Lyn took a look at the hard drive, I busied myself with inventory. The first thing I did, was I burned the faces off of fake some of the fake IDs I had.

They weren't mine. Indeed, if I had one true friend, it would be Seeley Booth. My paranoia led me to create numerous fake IDs and passports with the plastic and cash not only for him, but every one of his loved ones. So, I took a blowtorch to their photographs. This place would eventually be burned. I didn't want any evidence pointing to the one man I could trust with my life.

Well, the one man I can trust who's _left_.

It was a tactic I developed after my family died. Work. Work the body. Work the mind. It got me through my PTSD. It got me through my life as a covert operative. It allowed me to lie. To cheat. To steal. To kill. Funny, it had been destroying my enemies, mentally and physically, that had brought me the most happiness. Now, after a raid that should have left me feeling elated, left me feeling... tired.

I was tired. So tired. I wanted to sleep without having the need to take a pill. To not have to keep gun both under my pillow and at my side. I wanted to go to the park with my daughter. I wanted to hug my sister and brother. I wanted them to know that I am _alive_. That I'm not under some plot in Arlington.

I want to know that the ghost that I see are worth it. I want payment for my sins.

I glanced over at the girl. She was no older than sixteen. When Lyn had come up the stairs with her on her shoulder, I had been part surprised, part furious. This was not meant to be a rescue operation. This was meant to be part of my revenge. Part of my retribution for them killing a man I had fought side-by-side with. But, I had pulled our escape. Now, however, I think different. Maybe she could be my salvation. If saving this girl from a life of death and darkness absolved one of my sins, them it is worth it a thousand times over.

She had yet to wake up. I had checked her heart and respiration and put ice on her head. It wasn't much, but it was better than letting her die from brain swelling. If she didn't wake in another twenty hours, I would take her to the hospital as a Jane Doe.

Damn, look at me, waxing poetic when I should be working. Maybe Sweets was right. Maybe I need to actually deal with my problems.

I shoved that thought to the corner of my mind. Mission mode, "Lyn, what do we got?"

"Medical jargon," she said, "I can't make heads or tails."

"Good sign," I said, "Might tell us why she hasn't woken up yet."

"Got a calendar," she said, "Looks like training schedule, over the course of three months."

"What does it cover?"

"Infiltration, weapons, dead drops, defensive driving, ..." she said.

"Over three months?" I said, "It took me nine to finish my Green Team training with the DEVGRU. And it only covered _half _the stuff listed here."

"Remember the Px?" she said, "You said that it could advance the learning process."

"Never thought by that much, though," I said, "Must have improved the recipe. Where would she be right now?"

"She's three weeks away from completion," Lyn said, "They almost succeeded in making her into a weapon."

"What's the final three weeks teach?"

"'_Legend_'," she said, "What does it mean by that?"

"When I training with the Tracker Team," I said, "They showed videos of an experiment done in the '80s. Scientists doped a subject with hypnotics and dopamines. They then played sound, video, smells, sensations. Everything from shiting to heavy petting as a kid. Built him a whole new personality that he reverted to in times of stress. Like interrogation. The perfect deep cover agent. If caught, he'd never reveal any secrets because the man they were interrogating didn't know any."

"They were building her a personality," Lyn said, "So... who I am now..."

"It could be that you had a natural immunity to the Px," I said, "None of the subjects in Vietnam ever showed any regression to the memories they had before."

"Yeah," she sounded like she was only half listening, "I wonder if they have a file on me..."

"Hey," I said. She looked at me, "They tried to break you. They failed."

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** No, seriously, it's my birthday. No lie.**


	20. Conspiracies

"Lieutenant Caine, I would like to introduce you to- Well, we don't know his name," Cobry gestured to the man in the chair, "For now, we'll use his codename, 'Tarquin'."

"After the legendary kings of Rome," Horatio noted.

The man in the chair smiled, "A man who know's his history," he said. The man was getting on in his years, almost nearing retirement age. He had a handsome, if slightly fleshy, face, a wide smile, and creases around his eyes that said that he smiled a lot. His eyes, though, were hard and bright. The eyes of one used to interrogating. He wore a cream colored hat, a Hawaiian shirtm, and cargo shorts. He could disappear in any tourist crowd in a heartbeat.

"He heads one of those secret units that we know nothing about," Cobry said, "After Pierce, he's one of the most dangerous men in this country."

"I assure you, I don't bite," he smiled. But his eyes never left Horatio's face. Horatio felt a chill creep up his spine. It was like he was being examined under a microscope. Everything he did was laid bare before this man.

He did not like the feeling.

"I take it Pierce worked for you during the operation in Shanghai?" Horatio asked.

"Not me," he said. He seemed almost amused at the thought, "No, Pierce _used_ to work for me. Then he found... better employment."

"As an assassin," Horatio guessed.

"Please," Tarquin scoffed, "Anyone can be an assassin. _I _can be an assassin, me, an old fart! No, Pierce was _special_. He was a _tracker. _I worked with a hypochondriac who could possibly find Bin Laden by the brand of toilet paper he uses, but was useless in the field. Pierce could take a photo, a name, a string of what looked like random numbers and turn it into a who, what, where, when, how, and the type of toothpaste they use. And he could act on this intelligence _autonomously_."

"Do you have any idea what Pierce was doing in Shanghai?" Cobry asked.

"Curious as to what he got since that little firefight at the park?" Tarquin asked, "The people he worked with keep a tighter lid on their operations than we do, which deserves a medal in and of itself. But, Pierce leaves ripples. When underworld kingpins start doubling their bodyguards, you know Pierce is in town. He arrives at Shanghai, and five days later, some money the US Intelligence Community was tracking is stopped cold. Another body winds up in the Shanghai slums. Nothing all that unusual. But what set off the CIA, DIA, NSA, and everyother alphabet soup was the body of one of the foremost East Asia specialist winding up dead in a hotel room. A British tourist was found dead in an elevator."

Cobry's eyes flicked to Horatio. Evidently, he didn't know about that either. Tarquin smile faltered a bit, "You're hunting him, and you don't know the whole story? How were you ever going to find him, a master tracker, if you don't even know where the hell he's going?"

"Enlighten us," Horatio ordered.

"I protested the capture order from the start," Tarquin said, "From where we stood, where everyone stood, was that he had been attacked. That he was running from one of his many enemies. Once he almost killed Robert Claypool, well, you don't just attack one of the biggest political contributors without a damn good reason. The capture order was issued. Pierce was to be offered to the Indecision Makers as tribute."

"The British tourist," Cobry said.

"It wasn't a British tourist," Tarquin said, all trace of amusement gone, "I personally called it in. I was transfered to the head of Special Branch, UK FBI. He told me personally that it was a _low-priority._"

"Anything else you can tell us?" Horatio said.

"When Pierce released Claypool, I ordered my unit to investigate," Tarquin said, "A friend of mine backtracked his finances, discovered he was starting wars to sell arms and mercs to."

"Not surprising," Cobry said, "There have been rumors for years."

"Not those wars," he said, "I mean wars in places we never even thought he'd been in. South America, Azerbaijan, Myanmar. These wars have not profited Hellbourne Industries or any other of Claypool's companies."

"What else did you find?"

He leaned close, "I can't tell you specifics, but it looks like Claypool was paying favors. He starts a war in Country A, and Drug Company B has difficulty selling there, leading Conglomerate C to swoop in and buy them out. Conglomerate C then offers Claypool some lucrative offers to protect some of their shipping in hostile countries."

"Sounds like some sort of James Bond movie," Cobry said.

"Ha!" he chuckled, "You think it's that organized? That there is some all powerful council of doom? Nah, from what we could tell, these are just a collection of powerful assholes who have a mutual benefit from dirty business."

"Could they get a capture order on an innocent man?" Cobry asked.

"Would you believe that black ops have lobbyists?"

* * *

**Trev**

"She's waking up," I said.

"I can see that," Lyn snapped.

The kid groaned and stirred. I put foil on the windows and turned off the lights, leaving only a red industrial light on. Not only did they help you keep your night vision, they also didn't hurt as much when you had hangovers.

I saw her crack open her eyes. She blinked without fully opening them. She groaned.

The she attacked me.

She let out a feral scream and launched herself at me. I automatically stepped back, grabbed her right wrist with my right hand, her elbow with my left, and tried to use her momentum against her and slam her to the ground.

She responded like a pro MMA fighter. She lifted her elbow up, balanced herself, and aimed a punch at my throat.

She was _fast_. Lyn was faster. She tackled her to the ground. Lyn had spent almost ten years as a federal agent. Three of those protecting the President. Two working for a man who, when not working cases, was slave-driving his team with training. Just so you get an idea of the severity I mean when I say that _the kid kicked Lyn off of her._

The kid rolled to her feet and grabbed one of the knives I had lying around.

"I told you to put those away," Lyn growled.

"Is now _really _the time?" I asked.

She held it in a proper knife fighting grip, allowing her to stab and slash with equal speed. She screamed at us. No words, but the meaning was clear: _back off_.

But what was also clear was her expression. She was afraid.

I held up my hands, "We're not going to hurt you," I said slowly. She screamed at me again. I continued, "We're not going to hurt you," I said again.

She was panting. I could see the initial adreniline wear off. Now she was going into preservation mode. Her eyes locked on the door behind me. She gestured at it with her knife.

I shook my head, "I can't let you leave just yet, okay?"

She screamed at me again. I said, "Let's just talk a bit, okay? My name's Trev," I gave her a little wave, "This is Caitlin Todd. We're nice people, okay? Not like those other guys who kept you underground."

She screamed at me again. Something popped in my head. This time, when I spoke, I signed along too, "Can you tell me your name?"

"Ahhh, rrrhhh," she made more sounds, like she new what needed to be done, but wasn't sure how to work the controls.

"Can you hear me?" I said as I signed, "Yes?" I nodded, "No?" I shook my head.

She nodded.

"Do you know your name?" I asked as I signed.

She looked me in the eye for a long time. Then she shook her head.

"How'd you do that?" Lyn asked.

"A study found that autistic children respond better when they are presented with a system of communication that they can use themselves," I explained, signing as I did so, "She can't speak. So, I'm signing."

"How'd you learn _that_?"

"Helped with my muscle memory," I said.

"No! The study."

"Oh. Med school."

"I didn't know you were a doctor," she said.

"More interested in how the body works than how to fix it," I said/ signed.

"Hem," the kid coughed. She gestured like, _remember me?_

"Sorry."

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	21. Moving Foreward

**CSI Lab**

"H, Cobry," Wolfe said as they came out of the interview room, "You should see this."

Outside, Natalia, Delko, and Calleigh waited. Calleigh said, "I identified the rounds that Pierce fired at the port as coming from a Special Forces Combat Assault Rifle, designated by the military as a Mark 17. I finished this days ago, but we made the connection just no,"

"What connection?" Cobry asked.

"Pierce made it from Córtez to the Port with maybe an hour warning," Delko said, "He arrived started the attack five minutes ahead of us, and it took us a half hour to get to the Port. Assuming he doesn't carry that sort of weapon on him at all times, we are looking for a location that is within an hour to an hour and a half of the Port," they arrived at his computer and pulled up a map. With the Port at the center, a red disk expanded outward.

"That's mostly high-income and low-population area when compared to the rest of Maimi," Horatio noted.

"Still a lot of ground to cover," Cobry said.

"Now is where it gets good," Wolfe said with a smile.

Natalia said, "He used bolt cutters in the fence to gain entry. It's about a half hour footwalk from his firing position to the point of entry, so that lowers out travel time to one hour,"

Delko pushed a key and the disk narrowed.

Calleigh said, "It didn't seem that he planned the attack much, so that means he would have gone straight from the container he stored Córtez in, to his safehouse, to the Port, which means that," he clicked again, and the disk became a collection of red dots, and the location of the Connex a blue dot. The farther from the blue dot, the closer to the Port. A little box in the corner of the screen read _521 Possible Location(s)_.

"We can't search 521 locations," Cobry said.

"Eric, eliminate all the locations in gated or upper middle class communities," Horatio said.

Wolfe typed in a couple of commands and many dots disappeared. The screen said _213 Possible Location(s)._

"Still too much," Cobry said, "Eliminate residential locations altogether. Too many Nosy Nellies around."

Wolfe typed in the commands. _87 Possible Locations._

"Córtez was small-time, but was well known because he didn't take many risks," Cobry observed, "He lasted a long time because he kept to small business. Until recently Pierce did the same... can you pull up the tax records of all the businesses and people who own those locations?"

"It'll take me a while to get all of them," Wolfe said.

"Ya know what," Cobry said, "I'll call my team and have them do it. You guys go and get some sleep. You earned it."

* * *

"How long have we been on duty?" Wolfe said they made their way to the garage.

"49 hours," Natalia said, "I say we shoot Pierce for keeping us up this long."

"Horatio's a machine," Delko said, "He barely looks scruffled."

"Patriks seemed like the kind of guy who only needed an oil change every 3,000 miles," Calleigh said cracked her neck. They all had maybe six hours sleep from this whole mess. All of it grabbed while waiting for test results.

"Too bad that wasn't what got him," Delko said. He could still see Patriks heaving from the blood pooling in his lungs. He didn't seem hurt or in pain. More like surprised, and at the end peacefull. He even cracked a joke.

_Always thought meh liver would do me in,_ he coughed. Autopsy revealed that his liver was healthy. Somehow, Delko thought he would be amused.

Calleigh, Eric, and Ryan left when the elevator reached the second level. Natalia, who had arrived late- was it really only two days ago?- had parked on the roof.

She yawned as the elevator doors opened. Her car was the last one in the lot. It was twilight outside. Almost night. She popped her neck. Her biggest worry was falling asleep at the wheel.

She never saw the figure that slammed her into her car.

Instantly, adrenilen kicked in. She swiped back with her elbow and prepared to scream. The figure ducked punched her in her throat. She fell back into her car and gagged. The figure's arm shot foreward and something stabbed her in the neck.

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	22. Car Chase

**Trev**

The girl slid the magazine home and pulled the charge handle. I pressed the button on the stopwatch, "Under three minutes," I said, "Good, but I can do better."

"Knowledge of M16-series rifles," Lyn wrote down, "What could they possibly use a teenage girl in for all of this to be necessary?"

"Think about it," I said, "Who would suspect a young punk snot-nosed kid to be a mass murderer?" I turned to The Kid, "No offense," I signed.

She just shrugged. Despite clear evidence of her understanding us, she still couldn't speak. I wanted to get her in front of a trained medical professional. Then again, when one of the pieces of this "Enemy Allaince," as Lyn called it (I was partial to Council of Soon-to-be-Dead-Mothers) was a major Pharmaceutical company, hospitals are out of the question.

"How do you get all of this stuff, anyway?" Lyn asked.

"It's Miami, the smuggling capital of the world," I said, "If it's illegal, I could probably find it here."

"And what could you possibly need a rocket launcher with an attached assault rifle?" she asked.

"A: that's a recoiless rifle," big fudgin lie, I thought as my phone rang, "B: Because it's awesome. Talk."

_"I got five po-po cars coming out like a bat outta hell,"_ it was one of the gang-bangers I employed as scouts to give me warning.

"We've been made!" I shouted.

"How long?" Lyn asked, grabbing her go-bag.

"Five minutes tops," I said, "You go on foot, they're not looking for you."

"What about you?" She said.

"I'll be fine," I said and grabbed the keys to the Mustang, "Looking Glass Key, there's a ship, the _Beckett's Justice,_ it has enough supplies to get you to Mexico. Once you're there, find Alejandro Riviero, tell him that Marcos sent you and he'll hook you up with fake papers. Go from there. I'll find you!"

I rushed out. In the movies, she gives you a kiss for luck. We didn't have time for that. I'm not even sure she felt that way. I just new one thing. I had to buy them _time._

I waited until I heard the sirens. I started the car. I waited another heartbeat. I saw Lyn leading the kid away, duffel bag in her hand. She looked back at me. I nodded. So did she. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

My safe house went up in smoke.

* * *

The explosion wasn't spectacular like in the movies. There was a flash of light, the glass broke, and smoke started to flow out the window.

Horatio didn't brake stride as he called in Fire and Rescue and pursued the green Mustang.

The car raced through the streets. It was the hour preceding rush-hour. The early leavers were all going home, putting enough cars to worry the police yet not enough to slow Pierce down enough.

Pierce wove through the traffic with ease in his powerful Mustang. Horatio was at a disadvantage. His Hummer was too large to follow him directly. The three squadcars passed him and the black SUV used by Cobry.

The first squad car pulled alongside his left rear wheel. The next pulled alongside his front right. On the radio command, the two cars would slam into him and spin him too a stop.

Pierce slammed his brakes at the last second. The cars over shot him. He gunned it, his engine growling angrily. The Mustang rammed the rear squadcar at an oblique angle, pushbars absorbing the impact, causing him to spin into the side of the road. The front squadcar continued into the left lane, the driver obviously focused on stabilizing his vehicle. Pierce raced ahead of him.

Horatio grimly remembered that some SEALs received offensive and defensive driving training.

The four remaining vehicles gunned it. The two remaining squadcars pulled over to his sides. Cobry gunned it and managed to pull in front of Pierce. Horatio raced to close the rear. The road gently turned right.

Pierce gunned his engine and swung left, into both the squadcar and the SUV. He pressed into the weakpoint, almost dragging the squadcar with him. He the swung right, throwing the squadcar into a lightpole. He pulled ahead once more.

"_He's heading South Dixie Highway!"_ someone shouted on the radio.

The civilians were getting more numerous. Horatio nearly ran into a truck that didn't heed the sirens. He shouted at them to move.

Pierce pulled to the middle. He gunned the engine again and outraced all the civillians. He slowed down to traffic speed when he reached a good gap between him and most of the other drivers.

Cobry took the bait. He pulled along the right of Pierce's car. He swung his car at him.

Pierce slammed his brakes, and Cobry overshot. Right into the yellow Volkswagen Beetle next to Pierce. The collision stalled his momentum, and screwed his balance. The SUV tipped slightly and the little car got under it. The little car's momentum pushed his SUV onto it's side.

It's possible to absolutely hate physics.

Horatio and the other car hung back, waiting for reinforcements. Pierce turned off the highway, and headed northeast. A helicopter loomed overhead.

_"All units be advised, Suspect is headed to the Trail Glades Range."_

That was bad. With the tree cover, it would be impossible for the helicopter to track him if he turned onto one of the uncountable back roads.

But Horatio had the advantage. His Hummer could take the off-roads better than the Mustang.

The building thinned, and they were soon on open road. The Trail Glades Range, a motley assortment of wooded areas and swamp, loomed not to far off. Neither did the two car roadblock set up by the MDPD.

Pierce hit his brake. The squadcar behind him veered right, missing him. Pierce drifted right, gunned his engine. He slammed into the rear of the car. His engine growled angrily as he used the squadcar to smash the roadblock, veering out at the last second.

Horatio continued the pursuit.

Pierce suddenly veered off the main road, into the tree cover. Horatio veered behind him.

Pierce had made a mistake. His Mustang was fishtailing, bouncing around on the harsh road. The Hummer was taking it in stride. Horatio pressed on.

The road took a sharp turn right. Pierce accelerated, and veered, unable to gain purchase. His car turned but continue path. He t-boned a tree on the side of the road.

Horatio slammed his brakes. His heart skipped a beat. He hadn't noticed his speedometer. His tires couldn't gain enough purchase to stop. It rammed into Pierce's Mustang. The airbag exploded.

His glasses were broken. Another crime Pierce committed.

Horatio tried the handle on his door. It was jammed, but only loosely, he slammed his shoulder into it. It hurt, but the thing opened.

He drew his weapon and trained it on the car. It was a wreck, but the cab was largely intact.

"_Pierce!"_ he shouted, "_Come out with-"_

Something slamed into Horatio. He hit the Hummer. Pierce grabbed Horatio's gun arm and slammed it against the vehicle. The weapon fell out of his hands.

Horatio hooked his arm around the back of Pierce's neck threw him into the Hummer's body. Pierce tried to push off. Horatio pressed him against it. Pierce grunted, "Why try so hard?"

"_Where is she?"_ Horatio growled.

Pierce spun and hooked Horatio with his elbow. Horatio saw stars, "Who?" Pierce said, "I haven't hurt your people beyond a concussion."

Horatio tackled him and slammed him back against the Hummer, driving the breath out of Pierce. He threw him to the ground, "You took one of my people last night."

Pierce rolled to avoid Horatio's kick. He got to his feet and cracked his neck, "I had my own problems to deal with. I don't need more."

Horatio's sidearm was equidistant from them. Horatio was taller. But Pierce was younger, faster, and infinitely more trained.

"What is this about?" Horatio demanded, "Why here? Why Miami? Why my people?"

"_Not your people!"_ he shouted, "It was never about you or Patriks or Miami or anyone else but those who framed me!"

"What?"

"The ones who killed Patriks!" he shouted, "The ones who take teenage girls and fuck their minds up and bring them into my life of darkness! The ones who kidnap and experiment and assassinate and don't give a damn about who gets hurt!"

"Where is Natalia?" he demanded.

"I don't know!" Pierce shouted, "There is _one_ more man. The last one with the whole picture, the one with all of the dirt. _He _has her. The one they call 'Price'. The one my prisoners called 'Price'."

"Am I supposed to believe that?"

Pierce took a deep breath. His voice was hoarse from the shouting, "No," he shook his head, "But it's true. And I am the only one who can find your girl. But I want a promise from you."

"..."

"My two friends, they're leaving the US today. They're probably not coming back. But the wrap up investigation will shine light on them. They will become targets for every alphabet soup on the planet. When this mess is wrapped, keep that spotlight off of them. Let hide, and find some peace."

Horatio was speechless. Part of him said that Pierce was a liar, a trained liar. These associates of his would come back and get him out. Or plan their revenge.

Part of him believed that Pierce wanted this to end today. That Pierce was good on his word.

Pierce turned and walked into the swamp. Horatio picked up his weapon. He looked at it. He looked at Pierce. He said, "Pierce is a fake name, isn't it?"

Pierce stopped, "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Because the real Pierce was from Texas," Horatio said, "Your accent is Midwestern."

Pierce paused, "My name's Jon. Without the H."

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	23. Promise

First she smelled bleach. Then she tasted blood.

Natalia blinked groggily. The light gave her a headache. She felt her pulse at the front of her head. Her neck was stiff from her head hanging down for... how long?

She tried to talk, but was stopped by a gag. She blinked more. Her hands and feet were bound to a chair. She shook her head, her vision clearing.

"So she's awake," a voice said. Her ears rang with the soft New England consonants, "Ugly business, isn't it?"

She turned her head toward the voice. A man, late fifties, with a kind face and voice, bellied with a sinister aura. He smiled, kindly and predatory. _Walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly._

She faced serial killers, mobsters, and mass murderers. And none of them scared her as much as this man.

"You see," he said, picking up a scalpel, "You've been unlucky enough to have been dragged into a game. A little like hide and go seek. Except, we do more than hide, you see," he chuckled at that.

"Now, this whole mess has shown a distressing amount of light on me," he continued, examining the scalpel in the light, "Now, what better way to shove attention away than to frame someone for killing a cop?"

He leaned down to her eye level and laid the scalpel on her cheek, "Now, I am very sorry. This isn't personal," he didn't sound sorry, and Natalia felt it was _very_ personal.

He moved the scalpel slowly down her cheek to her neck. Her heart, dulled by the drugs began to beat frantically. Her breathing hitched. She felt the blade dig into her skin. Her life began to flash before her-

The blade with drew from her skin. With amazing quickness, the man pulled a gun from the table beside her and aimed at the figure standing in the doorway.

"You go with 'Hide and go Seek'?" the figure said. He was a tallish, brown hair, bright green eyes, Average White Guy in his mid thirties leaning on the frame, wearing suede boots, blue jeans, green t-shirt, and black windbreaker with an oddly shaped bulge on the left side. And he was eating Circus Animals. He spoke in an odd accent, more Midwest than West.

"You look pretty good for someone who just transversed a swamp," the old man said.

"I know a guy," he said, "Same guy who loaned you this apartment."

"I paid him a hefty sum to kill you."

He munched on a white elephant, "I never said he was still breathing."

"A shame that three people had to die today, because of you," again, the old man didn't seem that sorry.

"Please, Nelson- may I call you Nelson?" he asked. The old man paled a bit, "That's right. When I questioned your boys, I heard quite a bit about you."

"They'd never talk," he growled, all trace of kindness gone.

Pierce laughed. While "Nelson" was a spider, Pierce was a snake, "After a few chemically induced heart attacks, they sang like birds. Some, well, actually, almost every, medical professional says that heart attacks are the most painful thing a person can endure."

"You think your so smart, don't you?" he said, "I have the gun, and I'll kill you, then her, and this whole mess goes away."

"Really?" he said in mock surprise, "Then I must have missed the fact that ten of Giovanni's men are going to come in guns blazing in oh," he looked at his watch and clicked his tongue, "Thirty seconds?"

"You lie."

"Let's face it," he said, "Giovanni hates me, and he actually sorta likes you. Why would he send that many for little old me when a bomb would do just fine? Hmm? They're after the both of us. That's right, your bosses are cleaning up your mess, with you in it."

"What's your game?" he said.

"You don't have the firepower to take down ten," Pierce said, "The only way you have a chance of living, is giving me the lady, and the location of your insurance policy."

"I don't know what your talking about."

Pierce munched on another circus animal, "Bullshit. I want the documents linking everyone together. Every Senator, businessman, lawyer, and dumbfuck who ruined my week."

The old man growled and cocked his gun. His breathing was as heavy as Natalia's was when he held the knife to her throat. His gun shook. In another room, the door burst open.

"_The TRAVCO Octavian, _container 555-88974!" he shouted.

"Damn," Pierce said, "I own TRAVCO, too," he sighed, reached into his coat, pushed down, and an MP5K appeared almost out of nowhere. He leveled it at someone in the hall and fired a three round burst. And he still hasn't dropped his Circus Animals.

He and Nelson disappeared down the hall. The sound of gunfire filled the air. She jerked at her bonds to no avail. She couldn't even ground her teeth with the gag in her mouth. Involuntarily, tears filled her eyes. She was _trapped_. At the mercy of a psychopath and a terrorist.

Pierce dragged Nelson, who was firing at some unseen target in the hall with a weapon he didn't have going out, back into the room.

A grenade rolled in.

Pierce kicked it to the wall outside. It was still in view of the room. In view meant the it could hit them.

Seconds turned to eternities.

Pierce leaped at Natalia, grabbed her chair, threw it sideways, and covered her body with his.

_**BOOM!**_

The air was acrid under that of Pierce's dried sweat. He groaned and rolled off of her. He gasped in pain and looked at his leg. The air now had the coppery tang of Pierce's blood. He had taken shrapnel to his right leg.

"If you say 'Arrow to the knee', I'll fuckin kill ya," he said, the pain evident in his voice. He removed her gag, "Ya okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. She looked at Nelson. He had been in the more direct path of the grenade. His desperate attempt at life had failed. He'd be bothering no one ever again.

Pierce pulled out a knife and began, carefully, cutting her bonds. After he freed one hand he gave her the knife and pulled out his cell. It looked oddly familiar...

It was Horatio's phone.

"How'd you get that?" she asked. He offered her the bag of Circus Animals. She shook her head, "No the phone."

"That old bastard's good at fightin'," he said, "I pulled it off of him from out face off in the swamps," he offered her the cookies again, "Come on, your blood sugar has gotta be low."

She finished with her other arm and leaned "down" awkwardly to begin on her legs, "Shouldn't you be running away?"

"Think I can run in this condition?" he said, "I have shrapnel in my leg. Some of it could be dangerously close to my femoral artery. Can't move it," he dialed Horatio's phone, "Lieutenant, I'm delivering on my promise..."

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	24. End

**Trev**

"Is the duct tape _really _necessary," I asked.

"You escaped from a Turkish prison with a sock and a toothbrush," the Texan Detective said.

"I also had cheesecake," now _that_ was a story. But for another time...

The EMT continued to to duct tape my arms to the sides of the gurney. My injured leg remained free. I was lucky. I escaped with only three pieces of shrapnel in my leg, and those weren't very deep. But most of my thigh and a bit of my calf had sustained second degree burns. It hurt like a bitch, but I could walk.

I glanced at the girl, Natalia Boa Something. She had escaped with a bruise on her arm from the fall. After a few shrink sessions, vacation, and self defense courses, she'd be as good as new. Of course, that's all after a few days of solid sleep, by the look at her. I was running on caffeine tablets myself.

I felt Caine's shadow fall on me, "I delivered."

"Mr Pierce, I need to ask you a few questions," he said, his voice unreadable.

"Fire away," poor choice of words.

"Mr Pierce, in your actions since your arrival in Miami, have you had any help from another party?"

I flicked my eyes to him. His expression was unreadable. I wondered if he was ever a Gunny, "No."

"Do you have or have had associates in Miami provide you with assistance, financial, physical, or otherwise?"

Again, he played it close to the vest. I similarly answered, "No."

Caine tilted his head to one side, and looked at me like I was a puzzle he was having trouble solving. It was a little disconcerting, "Are you responsible for the kidnapping of a Mr Juan Córtez, firing on a police vehicle in the Port of Miami, the firefight in Rocklee Park, the police chase at 4:00 PM, and the incident here at approximately 8:32 PM?"

I saw how tired he looked. Almost as tired as I felt, "Yes."

"And you did not have assistance in any of these actions?"

"I was alone," I lied.

He nodded and said, "I shall take your statement at the station."

"You going to take _The Octavian?_" I asked.

"Of course," he said.

"I know the CEO," I said, "With one phone call, I can end this tonight."

"What's the catch?"

"I go with you."

"Absolutely not," Horatio said.

"I can't exactly run away," I said, gesturing to my leg, "I make one call, and this all ends by sunup."

The lieutenant seemed to chew this. He glanced at my legs. And back to my eyes. I could hear the gears turning in his head. I was beginning to doubt when he pulled out his pocet knife, cut the duct tape binding my right arm, and handed me his phone.

I called up my Crooked Jew.

And no, that's not racist. He described himself that way.

* * *

Jon was in definite pain. His face was hard set as he limped down the catwalk,leg irons clinking. Ryan and Delko in front and behind. Cobry brought up the rear, one hand on his sidearm and both eyes on Jon. Horatio vaguely admired that about him.

Jon called his contact, who called the captain of the _Octavian_, who promptly let them in without needing a warrant. The captain, a Canadian with a round belly and big mouth said, "Oh, well, wasn't too much trouble to tell ya da truth. The container was stacked on the outside, so we don't have trouble with the crane and such to bring it out. I tell ya, have to have friends in high places for them to rocket me a request like that."

"Sorry to wake you," Jon said through clenched teeth.

"No worries, I was already awake," the captain said politely, "Yep, filling out paperwork for a return through Panama. Here we are."

He gestured at the red shipping container and handed a pair of bolt cutters to Horatio, "I gotta ask though," the captain said, "Is this legal?"

"TRAVCO owns the ship and the container," Jon said, "But the law is very clear: unless it is inherently dangerous, like drugs or bomb, or is evidence in a crime, we -you guys," he corrected after Delko's and Ryan's glares, "cannot legally take possession of it, because it does not belong to TRAVCO. I'm saying that I had a reliable source tell me that whatever is in there is evidence so..."

Horatio cut the padlock and pulled open the container. The captain blanched and ran, cursing very un-Canadian like.

Cobry growled, "You _had_ to say _Bomb!"_

The container was full of blue barrels with blocks of C4 on top. Horatio knew this was the real deal. Lying in the center was a computer hard drive on a pressure plate. Horatio looked up. A small red light was blinking fast.

"Armed," Horatio said.

"This is no fake," Cobry said, sniffing the air, "I smell the fuel."

"Timer," Jon jerked his head at a little black box next to the hard drive.

Horatio entered and looked at the first barrel. The C4 was spiderwebbed with cords, "Cobry, how long would it take you to disarm?"

"This barrel?" he said, "A week, minimum."

"We don't have seven minutes," Jon said. He grabbed the gauze on his leg and yanked it free. He wound the bloody cloth into a ball. He hobbled to the center of the container and knelt down, "On my mark, take hard drive."

"Are you nuts?" Ryan asked, motioning to bring him back.

Horatio stopped him, "What are you doing?"

"He's going to use the iron in his blood to short circuit the plate," Cobry guessed.

"Knife," he held out his hand. When the group hesitated, "_We're running out of time!" _Horatio tossed him his pocket knife and walked to the center of the container. Delko put his hand on his shoulder. Horatio looked at him. Eric nodded.

Jon quickly stripped some of the PVC coating of the wire, baring the copper. He held the bloody bandage near it, "Wait," Horatio said, "How long will this give us?"

"Thirty seconds at most," he said, "These bombs are wired in modified Shrieber-style. I can get you more time."

"How long?"

"Three, four minutes tops," he said, "Get off the ship, it's the only way you'll be safe."

"What about you?" Cobry asked, "I can do. And I'm faster than you, with that leg."

Jon shook his head, "And I die, forty years later in my cell, regretting letting more good men die in my place? No. Let me die with dignity."

Cobry nodded, and knelt by him. He unlocked the cuffs and irons. He patted him on the shoulder. He took out his communicator, looped it around Jon's ear, and said, "Now well hear any last words."

Jon looked at the group. He took a shaky breath, and released. He took another, this one more smooth. He said calmly, "Mark!"

Horatio snatched the hard drive. Jon wrapped the wire around the bandage. Eric yanked Horatio away.

And they _ran_.

All the stresses of the past week showed themselves. Horatio's lungs burned. His legs screamed. Still he kept on running. He ran up the stairwell to the deck and raced across. He could hear Ryan behind him, and could see Cobry and Eric in front of him.

He felt his age become apparent. Incredibly, the only thought in his mind was, _I'm too old for this._

He made it too the stairs leading to the docks when he heard Jon say, _"I'm done. Following you now!"_

Horatio made it to the docks and sprinted as far away from that blasted ship as he could.

_"Almost there,"_ he heard Jon say, _"Almo-"_

_**BOOM!**_

* * *

**Tampico, Mexico**

The cantina was one of those forgotten little niches that tourist found but could never find again. The locals seemed to tolerate the odd gringo now and then, but were content that this bar was _theirs. _The only sound came from hushed whispers about rigged cock fights and the small, 90s era TV with spotty signal, playing the news.

"_En noticias recientes, las autoridades estadounidenses han arrestado a varios altos personajes públicos varios, en un caso de conspiración criminal reciente. Algunas fuentes de alto rango dicen que está relacionado con la caza del hombre reciente de Michael Pierce terrorismo en Miami. Pierce se alegue que han muerto en una explosión en un buque de carga en el Puerto de Miami.  
_

_No se han encontrado los cuerpos."_

A pretty brunnette, her skin tanned gold from exposer to the sun, smiled at a yound lady that could be her daughter, who silently smiled back. She drained the rest of her cervesa, put on her sun hat, and walked out of the bar, the younger one following close behind.

**And thus ends what I will admit is not one of my better works. But I am glad to have finished it before I left for bootcamp.**

** PLEASE REVIEW!**


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